


there is a light (and it never goes out)

by ladyerinys



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, Battle of the Bands, Childhood Trauma, Diners, F/M, Garage Band AU, Glenn Fraldarius Lives, Minor Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Minor Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz, Mutual Pining, Past Dorothea Arnault/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, everyone has shitty dads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 95,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27726785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyerinys/pseuds/ladyerinys
Summary: “Yeah, well,” said Felix. “Dimitri’s… he’s.” He sighed. “Dimitri's tired.” It was obvious from the way he said this that “tired” meant a lot of things besides “typical high school sleep deprivation.” Annette, curiosity piqued, wanted to ask, but she said nothing. “He needs this band. No singer, no band. That’s not your fault.”They sat in silence, watching as the wind blew through the trees. There were so many things that Annette wanted to ask; so much on her mind that she struggled to put the hundreds of questions racing through it into words. She settled for: “What about you?”“What about me?” Felix repeated.Annette studied him. “Do you need the band?”She hadn’t realized how close she’d gotten to Felix until he stood, and her face was suddenly inches from his chest. “I guess you’ll never know, Have a nice weekend, Annette.”---Desperate to play one last year with his high school band before Felix and Sylvain graduate, Dimitri looks for a new lead singer and finds one in Annette. Shenanigans ensue.(High School/ Garage Band AU. ON HIATUS.)
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is, of course, from The Smiths song. Go listen to the Dum Dum Girls cover though, because it's better.
> 
> Many thanks to Emma (cubitumeamus) for letting me rant about this fic in her DM's & Joanna (joannam13) for listening to me yell about a work for a fandom she doesn't even belong to.

When it came time for the four remaining members of Boar Prince to vote on whether they should consider changing their name before auditioning a new lead singer, any potential for discussion was completely hijacked when Dimitri innocently wondered how they even came up with the name Boar Prince in the first place.

Felix remembered it being Dimitri’s idea to name the band after himself, while Ingrid argued that the idea of naming a band after an unflattering nickname made absolutely no sense (and suggested instead that it was Felix’s idea of a joke.) _Felix?_ **_Joke_ ** _?_ Sylvain had asked incredulously, and before they knew it, an hour had gone by with absolutely no progress on the name front and they’d decided, in the end, that whoever they auditioned who just have to be fine with the name they’d chosen three years earlier and that was the end of it.

“This is all Glenn’s fault,” Ingrid complained, lying on her back on Dimitri’s basement floor and watching as the ceiling fan swirled in listless circles. “If he’d just waited two more years to move to New York, then we wouldn’t be spending the last night of summer making flyers for his stupid replacement. Fucking _traitor.”_

“Two years is a big ask, Ing,” Sylvain, who like Felix, was one of two seniors in the group, offered. “Maybe one? Just as a trial period?”

“And, as we all know, the idea of turning down a job so you can keep playing in your high school band is _so_ tempting,” Felix deadpanned. Ingrid kicked him - or tried to, at least. Felix was perched above her on the arm of a leather loveseat that had seen better days and Ingrid, despite being a two-year member of the varsity girl’s soccer team, didn’t have gravity on her side. She managed only a light tap and a muttered complaint about _the principle of it all._

“Also,” Dimitri pointed out from across the room, between sips of a blue raspberry gas station slushie. “It’s not really Glenn’s fault that we said he’d make fliers over the summer and didn’t.” He paused, slurping up the last sips and setting the empty plastic cup atop a pile of records that currently served as a side table. “He left in - what, May? That’s… kind of on us.”

“I still think we’re making this too complicated,” Sylvain offered, lying on the floor alongside Ingrid and using her stomach as a pillow. “This whole ‘auditioning a new lead singer so we can do the Battle of the Bands invitational next month thing.’ Why don’t I just sing lead-”

“ ** _NO_ **.” A chorus of voices groaned in unison, and Dimitri threw the empty slushie cup at Sylvain for good measure. 

“Whoa, whoa, _easy,”_ Sylvain pouted. “You guys really know how to hurt a guy’s self-esteem, huh? It was just a _suggestion. Jesus.”_

“A suggestion we wouldn’t even have to consider if _someone_ did his job and got approval from the principal’s office for us to post flyers last spring,” Ingrid snapped, and the room dissolved into bickering (primarily between Sylvain and Ingrid, who, despite the fact that they were enthusiastically arguing, hadn’t moved from cuddling on the floor.)

“ _Hey_ ,” Dimitri said, and then again, louder, “ _HEY_ .” They fell silent, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. It was a nervous habit left over from before he’d switched to contacts in seventh grade, and though none of them would admit it, they all found it endearing. “Look.” He said. “It’s too late now to worry about whether we should’ve done this earlier, so I suggest we just print the flyers and figure out the blame game _after_ we have a new singer. Okay?”

“Fine,” Ingrid muttered tersely, and Felix sent a silent prayer of gratitude to whatever god had decided Dimitri should be the de facto frontman of their high school garage band rather than Ingrid (or, god forbid, Sylvain).

The room fell silent. In the distance, police sirens roared; the faint slamming of car doors signaled the cavalcade of parents returning home from 9-to-5 jobs. Ingrid picked at her cuticles, while Sylvain scrolled through what looked like hundreds of unread text messages. Upstairs in Dimitri’s kitchen, Felix could hear someone rifling through the fridge. 

“Sounds like your stepsister’s home from work,” He said at last, mostly to break the silence, which had started as comfortable and was now verging on awkward. 

Dimitri grimaced. “Oh. Yeah.” He said plainly, and Felix immediately regretted mentioning her. Dimitri’s stepsister, Edelgard, was a sore spot for the Blaiddyd family. She’d moved in with them last summer after a series of complicated custody battles that Felix remembered only from the exhausting impact they’d had on Dimitri, who’d spent most of the summer hotboxing in Sylvain’s car and ranting about the legal system. Given that she was a year younger than he was, Felix had only met her twice. Both times, he’d found her intriguing - and also, more importantly, absolutely fucking terrifying.

Thankfully, both of them were spared from talking about Edelgard by Ingrid, who sat upright (earning an _oof_ from Sylvain as he fell off her lap). “Do you think she’s using the kitchen? I’m _starving._ ”

“I don’t know,” Dimitri admitted. He scratched the back of his neck. “Probably? We still need to make those flyers-” There was loud groaning on all sides, to which Dimitri hastily added, “but we can order a pizza, at least. I’ll pay” 

It was the right thing to say. Ingrid beamed. “Ooh, can we get breadsticks? Since you’re paying.” Dimitri shrugged in an offhand manner, to which Felix, rolling his eyes, added: 

“Do you ever think about anything but food?” 

“Man cannot live on Leonard Cohen alone, Felix,” Ingrid replied haughtily, standing up and brushing dust from her sweatpants.

“You’re right,” Sylvain said. “He needs David Byrne, too.” 

Ingrid flipped him off cheerily.

Across the room, Dimitri had been furiously typing away, presumably retyping their orders from memory (that or, given how fast he was typing, writing the Great American Novel.) “Alright, so one cheese, one pepperoni, a thing of breadsticks - “

“ _Two_ things of breadsticks” Ingrid interrupted.

“Two things of breadsticks,” Dimitri corrected himself. “That’s it?” When no one moved to correct him further, he stood up, stretched, and pocketed his iPhone. “I'll call from upstairs. Don’t break anything in the meantime.”

“No promises,” Sylvain called as Dimitri vanished around the corner and disappeared up the stairs.

Without their fearless leader, the mood in the room turned somber. Ingrid flopped next to Felix on the loveseat, her unruly blonde hair fanning out behind her like a halo. “So,” she said. There was a pause. “Does anyone actually think this whole ‘audition a new singer’ scheme is going to work?”

“Like, are we going to find someone who can physically hold a tune?” Sylvain asked, sitting on the floor and leaning against the loveseat between Ingrid’s legs. “Or are we going to find someone who can replace Glenn, you mean?”

“No one can ‘replace Glenn,’” Ingrid said, suddenly intense and electric. Then, suddenly, deflated, she sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t know, I just keep thinking, we’ve been a band for what, almost four years? What are we thinking, trying to add a new person like this at the last minute? Maybe we should just call it off.”

“Hey, don’t sound so defeatist,” Sylvain chided her. “Pessimism might be okay for you youngin’s, but it’s my senior year, _baby_. It’s my last hurrah. We haven’t even had auditions yet and you’re already giving up?” Turning to Felix, he added in a stage whisper, “Hey. Psst. Back me up here.”

Felix, who had only been half-listening to the amicable bickering, muttered, “Hmm? Oh. Yeah.” Turning to Ingrid, he added, in a voice that sounded half-hearted, even to his own ears, “How hard can it be to find one person in all of Garegg Mach who wants to be in a band?”

_____

Surprisingly hard, as it turned out.

In retrospect, Felix thought, they probably should’ve waited until the beginning-of-year flurry of auditions, tryouts, and club sign-ups had cleared out, freeing both physical space (bulletin boards, the backs of bathroom stalls, and along hallways) and mental space (the students of Garegg Mach Academy kept rigorous extracurricular schedules) for their flyers. Not that “ROCK BAND SEEKING NEW SINGER, AUDITIONS IN ANNEX B” was a particularly enticing advertisement, but surely amidst the _West Side Story_ rejects there had to be _someone_ interested in trying out? Some choir boy interested in branching out his portfolio before festival season? Right?

To be fair, it wasn’t that they didn’t have _any_ auditionees. Actually, looking at the long list of names on the signup sheet they’d posted outside the annex between periods, Felix felt something like hope. Some of the names he even recognized from when Sylvain’s ex-girlfriend Dorothea had dragged them all to her voice recitals (Dorothea was, despite a mostly mutual breakup, blacklisted from auditioning for Boar Prince for obvious reasons. Besides, she was a shoo-in for Maria and already had her weekends busy with private voice lessons. Fucking opera singers.)

That initial optimism waned as, over the course of a torturous afternoon, the member of Boar Prince watched audition after audition of singers that, while they weren’t all _bad,_ weren’t exactly “rock band” material. One timid freshman made it three bars into “Blackbird” before turning a bright scarlet color and running from the room. A junior that Dimitri recognized from his parents’ church auditioned with a rather moving rendition of the Polish national anthem. Three sophomores auditioned with the same Taylor Swift song, which Sylvain voiced his appreciation for (he was alone in this opinion after the first time.) 

By the end of the afternoon, Ingrid was nursing her third cup of coffee. Dark purple circles had blossomed under Dimitri’s eyes. Even Sylvain, the unofficial cheerleader of the group, appeared less than thrilled by the results, to say nothing of Felix, who felt somewhere between exhausted and like he was at risk of committing a third-degree felony on the drive home.

“Alright,” Dimitri exhaled. “This is our last one of the day, and then - and then, we can all go home.” In a louder voice, he called out, “Come in.”

The boy who entered carried a folder of music with _Andrew Lloyd Weber: The Hits - To Now!_ emblazoned across the front in bold text. “Good afternoon,” he said in a nasal voice. “My name is Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, and I’ll be auditioning with the song ‘Memory’ from the hit musical _Cats_ ”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Dimitri said weakly. Next to him, Sylvain pressed his face into the plastic linoleum table and let out a sound that was somewhere between a whale song and the wheezing rattle of a dying dog.

_____

“Well.” Dimitri began, picking at his french fries. The four of them were squeezed into a booth at Fergus’s, the dive bar-cum-diner that served as their unofficial afterschool haunt, long after Lorenz Hellman Gloucester had delivered what, they all, however reluctantly, agreed was a skillful rendition of “Memory.” Dimitri cleared his throat. “Well,” he said again, “That was certainly-”

“A complete fucking nightmare?” Felix finished, taking a sip of his cherry coke. He fully expected Dimitri to contradict him, but to his surprise, Dimitri agreed.

“Yeah,” He said, once again sighing. “A complete fucking nightmare is right.”

“I don’t know, gang,” Sylvain shook his head. “I thought the Memory kid was a real gem.”

“‘Memory Kid?’ That’s Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, to you,” Felix deadpanned.

Ingrid snorted - _loudly_ \- and then covered her mouth with her hands in embarrassment. “Shut up,” she moaned. “He was _horrible._ He’s going to haunt my _nightmares._ ”

“More like your _memories_ ,” Sylvain countered, to which Dimitri let out a loud cackle. Ingrid made a face at him from across the table. 

“You’re incorrigible,” She said. Sylvain made some comment about SAT vocabulary words, but Felix was yet again only half-listening, letting the sounds of his friends bickering wash over him like a warm breeze. Yet again, he found himself wondering how they thought adding someone new to the group would function. They were less a well-oiled machine than a barely functioning jalopy, sure, but they were basically family at this point. Hell, Glenn literally _was_ family, at least to Felix. Maybe Ingrid had been right. Maybe there was no point in trying to fix something that was only broken because of things out of their control.

“Oh, um, if that’s everything, then - ” A light voice interrupted his train of thought. The waitress, a waifish brunette whose nametag read MERCEDES, had returned with the check. (Amidst the chaos, Felix forgot they’d asked for it.) “Are you all paying together, or would you like me to go back to the kitchen and split the checks?” She asked, in a soft voice, lightly accented - Kentucky, maybe, or Tennessee - and an aura of nervous indecision radiated from her as she hovered over the table, waiting for one of the four to take the check from her outstretched hand.

Ingrid opened her mouth, likely to say that separate checks would be fine, only for Sylvain to swoop in and pluck the folio from the waitress’s grasp. “Altogether is fine, miss,” He winked. “We wouldn’t want you to have to go through any extra trouble, right?”

“Oh,” The waitress - Mercedes - said, flushing a pastel pink as Sylvain fished a crisp $100 from his wallet, slipped it between the folds of the folio, and returned the booklet to her hands. “It’s not any-”

Sylvain waved her off. “Oh, and keep the change,” he added. “As a tip for you, not for whoever runs the place, alright?”

“Alright,” Mercedes agreed, beaming, as she disappeared into the kitchen with the folio. The four of them shimmied out of the narrow diner booth, reaching under vinyl seats to collect backpacks before bracing themselves against the transition from the overbearing airconditioning of the diner to the lukewarm August evening.

Dimitri and Ingrid were the first out of the diner, already animatedly debating about some British science-fiction show that had aired the first episode of a new season the night before. Felix had no idea how they’d gotten onto a new topic of conversation within seconds, but then, Ingrid and Dimitri seemed to speak a language of their own sometimes, so it shouldn’t’ve been surprising. At any rate, Felix didn’t mind being left out of their conversation. The walk from the diner to their parked cars was hardly a trek - and besides, he thought as he dropped back to match his pace to Sylvain’s, there was something on his mind.

“That wasn’t $100 of food,” he said, once Dimitri and Ingrid were out of earshot. “Maybe $30 if I’m being generous.”

“And?” Sylvain asked innocently. “What’s your point?”

“My _point,_ ” Felix said testily, “Is that there are easier ways to flirt than with a 200% tip.”

Sylvain shrugged, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and fishing for his car keys. “It’s Daddy’s money, Felix,” he said. “You know he doesn’t check the credit card statements. No one’s getting hurt.”

“Maybe not _now,_ ” Felix argued. “But once it’s your own money - “

“Then I’ll tip 400% instead,” Sylvain said cheerily, unlocking his BMW with his free hand. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he tossed his backpack into the back, signaling the conversation was over. “See you at auditions round two tomorrow, _compadre_!” 

_____

The next day of auditions went about as well as the first. The only difference, thought Felix, was that there weren’t any Lorenz Hellman Gloucesters to liven up the monotony of suffering through hours of underclassmen muddling their way through _The Greatest Hits of The Smiths,_ punctuated with _Meat is Murder_ by one ambitious junior who Ingrid knew from the soccer team.

( “What is it with all the Morrisey?” Dimitri asked at one point in deep despair. “Do we _look_ like a Morrisey band?”

“Maybe it’s the name,” Sylvain offered. “There aren’t a lot of vegan options in the cafeteria, right? Maybe people saw ‘Boar Prince’ and thought it was, like, an environmental thing.”

There was a long pause, before Dimitri said, “Sylvain, what are you _talking about?_ ”)

By the end of the day, likely sensing Felix’s thinly coiled frustration as audition after audition ended in what could only, in polite terms, be considered “a bad fit,” Dimitri sent him to the library copier with instructions to make more flyers. Felix considered pointing out that, seeing as their audition slots were booked for the remainder of the week, interest wasn’t the problem, but Dimitri looked so pitiful that Felix, sighing, accepted the stack of flyers and made the trek from the annex to the second floor.

Considering it was long after school hours, he expected to find the library empty. At least, he reasonably expected that the printer would be free, considering its purpose was typically for panicked students to print out last-minute assignments and, considering it was the first week of classes, there weren’t any assignments yet. With mild surprise, he discovered he was wrong: a redhead with her hair in two buns atop her head and a pair of blue headphones over her ears was bent over the copier as it spat out what appeared to be… well, whatever it was, it was a lot of paper.

At first, Felix wasn’t planning on saying anything, but as the copier finished the job and the girl gave no sign that she was planning on moving out of the way, he cleared his throat.

Nothing. Not that he was surprised - those headphones she was wearing looked _industrial._

“Excuse me,” He tried again. Still nothing - and now, Christ, was she _humming_ now _?_ It should be against the law to be this fucking _chipper_ on school property.

“Hey!” He yelled, however reluctantly. This, at last, worked. The girl jumped so abruptly he wondered if she’d jump out of her skin.

“Oh!” She said, turning around and slipping the headphones around her neck. “Oh God, sorry, were you waiting for the copier? These headphones are so good, it’s like I can’t hear myself _think_ sometimes, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” said Felix, like he understood (he didn’t.)

“Here, all yours,” she said, collecting the stacks of paper and moving away from the copier as she continued to diligently staple the stacks of (Felix now realized) were programs for the upcoming convocation assembly. He wondered as he fed stacks of flyers into the copier whether she’d volunteered for the thankless task of making copies or if she’d been coerced. _Volunteered,_ he decided, noticing now that he was closer than his companion had accessorized the standard Garegg Mach Academy uniform with a pair of earrings with the academy’s insignia. You didn’t wear your school’s merchandise unless you were the “joining” type.

“So,” the girl said, as Felix waited for the copier to finish the last of the flyers. “Why are you copying like you’re running out of time?”

“What?” Felix asked.

She sighed. “The copier,” She said mildly. “What are you making so many copies of over there?”

“Flyers,” Felix said, and then, anticipating her follow-up question, added, “We’re looking for a new singer for our band.”

“Oh really?” The girl asked, finishing her stapling and dutifully replacing the stapler atop the copy machine before collecting her stack of programs. “Wait, I think I saw those. You’re Boar Prince, right?”

“The band is,” Felix admitted. And then, for reasons that weren’t entirely clear to him, he asked, “Interested?”

To his immense relief and disappointment, she shrugged - or tried to (over the mountain of programs in her arms, it was a difficult task.) “Me? Nah. I’m not the rock-star type.” Adjusting her posture, she reached down to swing a pastel pink backpack over her shoulder. “Good luck on the auditions, though. Or - I guess I should say ‘break a leg,’ right?”

“Good luck is fine,” Felix said. “Don’t you only say ‘break a leg’ before performances?”

“Well, break good luck, just in case,” the girl said, smiling. With her stack of papers, she pushed through the library double doors and was gone.

Felix took the long way back to the Annex, taking down every flyer he saw and hanging up an identical one in its place.

_____

Most days, Felix ate lunch with Dorothea beneath the bleachers. Initially, it was Dorothea, Ingrid, and Sylvain, but Ingrid switched lunches once she transferred from Honors into AP Calculus (“only you would switch into a _harder_ math class,” Sylvain complained) and Sylvain had a free period immediately before lunch, which meant he was usually nowhere to be found until well into third period or occasionally fourth. Not that Felix minded - contrary to popular belief, he liked Dorothea, even if he’d never tell her (her head was big enough as it was). He liked her even more once she and Sylvain broke up and he once again had an outlet for complaining about Sylvain to someone who not only sympathized but understood that an essential part of loving Sylvain was reckoning with the fact that he would, a lot of the time, make you put up with some real bullshit.

“You know, I almost hate to ask,” Dorothea began, bringing her Juul to her lips and exhaling slowly. Felix got a whiff of watermelon before it vanished into the air. “But - your auditions? They can’t be getting _worse,_ can they?”

Felix took a long, pensive sip of his bottled water. “You’d think. “ He said. “But no, somehow, we’re managing.”

“Christ,” Dorothea said sympathetically. “So - what now, do you just,” She wriggled her hand absentmindedly. “Give up? Bribe a choir kid? Skype in Glenn from New York?”

“We’re considering.”

That got her attention. “Wait, what? Really?”

“Almost. Nobody’s suggested skyping in Glenn yet. You should mention it to Ingrid.”

“Maybe,” Dorothea said, something strange and tight in her voice. Before Felix could figure out what that meant, she’d moved on. “Oh, wait, I know - you should get a robot to do the vocals. Like those guys from Daft Punk.”

“That’s a gimmick,” Felix said. “They’re not… _actually_ robots. You know that, right? It’s important to me that you know that.”

“ _Oo-kay_ , mister music snob,” Dorothea said, but she was laughing as she took another hit of her Juul and the familiar watermelon scent once again filled the air.

_____

The three remaining days of auditions were, like the second day, mostly uneventful and completely exhausting. They weren’t a total loss - as Dimitri rightfully pointed out, there were a few strong contenders for callbacks - but in the end, there weren’t any standouts from the sea of names that they were particularly excited to see. Friday afternoon, once the last name from the last day of sign-ups had sung for them, the members of Boar Prince crowded around the linoleum table and went down the week’s roster with a red sharpie marker.

“So,” Dimitri said, counting up the number of circled names and jotting down, on a separate sheet of paper, the list for callbacks. “That’s - _one, two, three…”_ He counted under his breath before abruptly reaching the end of the list. “Seven people. We saw more than a hundred and we’re calling back…” He deflated. “Seven.”

“Christ,” Felix said, voicing the unspoken thought they all shared, “this is fucking dismal.”

“Yeah,” Dimitri exhaled. “Seven is… not great.” It was difficult to see him so exhausted, even over something so seemingly trivial as band auditions. Dimitri was their martial, their leader, their general, their _Luke Skywalker_ (a comparison only amplified by Dimitri’s shock of white-blond hair and baby blue eyes.) If Sylvain was their cheerleader, Dimitri was their captain, and though none of them said it, Felix could tell that they’d all been silently relying on him for their own morale.

“I need a drink,” Sylvain announced. Beside him, wordlessly, Ingrid muttered her assent. “What’s the scene this weekend?”

“The _scene_ ?” Felix asked, to which Sylvain, taking this as a cue to elaborate (which was decidedly _not_ the way Felix had intended it), added:

“You know. Parties. Ragers. Raves. Someone’s parents have to be out of town, and I need to know who. Anyone? _Anyone_?”

Felix frowned. Ingrid looked confused. Dimitri, who rarely went to parties that didn’t involve the word “birthday,” and then only when forced, shrugged. Sylvain sighed overdramatically and reached into his back pocket for his phone.

“I have to do _everything,_ don’t I?” He grumbled, typing away furiously (Felix could only guess at who, or what, he was texting. Hilda Valentine Goneril? The mafia? God? Sylvain worked in mysterious ways. Any one of those was an equally viable option.) “Aha!” He announced a moment later, returning his phone to his pocket. “Not to fear, everyone. Party at Claude’s Monday night.”

“Claude? Claude von Riegan?” Dimitri asked at the same time that Ingrid asked “Monday?”

“Yeah, Claude von Riegan,” Sylvain repeated. “His parents are in Cyprus for the weekend, so he’s taken it upon himself to do his civic duty and throw us all a nice back-to-school party over Labor Day Weekend. Why? You know him?”

(Felix did. Not by choice, exactly, and not in a way that he could explain to anyone. More importantly, he knew _Dimitri_ knew Claude, certainly more than he, Felix, knew Claude, and he knew _how_ they knew each other. There were certain things you learned from being around someone at their darkest, and this, as it turned out, was one of them.

The summer before Dimitri and Ingrid’s sophomore year of high school, Felix and Sylvain’s junior, the summer when Ingrid spent three weeks at sleepaway soccer camp in Vermont and Sylvain spent two months in the Hamptons with his dad in a strange attempt at “bonding,” Glenn was off in D.C. with Rodrigue, which left Felix and Dimitri as the only members of Boar Prince in town.

That was the year that Claude von Riegan, with his bright eyes and the smile that never met them, transferred to Garegg Mach, and the biggest tragedy of it all was how easily it could’ve happened any other way than it did.

Because the way it happened would’ve been unfair to anyone, but it was especially, _cruelly,_ unfair to Dimitri Blaiddyd, who had never even _kissed_ a boy before and who spent a week sleeping on Felix’s floor so his parents wouldn’t hear him crying through the walls. The night before Ingrid and Sylvain came back to town, he’d asked Felix to promise not to tell with the panicked look of a rabid dog, and Felix agreed as if there was any other option, and they’d never spoken about it again.

So, yeah, Felix knew Claude von Riegan.)

“Yeah, I know him,” Dimitri said at last. His face didn’t betray any emotion. “His house is a few neighborhoods down from mine, actually.”

“So it’s basically fate that we go to this party, is what I’m hearing,” Sylvain grinned. “Are we in, or are we _in?_ ”

Dimitri cast a mournful look back at the stacks of audition sheets, still marked with that ugly red sharpie. Over his head, Felix and Ingrid exchanged a look, wordlessly vowing that if Dimitri, who attended parties with the enthusiasm of scheduling a root canal, agreed to go to Claude’s, they were both going with him.

“Alright,” Dimitri said, at last, sounding like a man who’d signed his own death warrant “I’m in.”

“Al _riiiiiight_!” Sylvain crowed, and Felix sent a silent prayer up to whoever was still listening.

_____

The weekend passed by in a haze. Felix spent most of it fielding texts from Sylvain about things that didn’t matter (girls, the latest Tame Impala album, different girls) and texts from Ingrid about things that did, but that he didn’t want to think about (college applications, SAT scores, the test in their Government class on Wednesday.) He coped with both of these things as he coped with most things in life: turning his phone on airplane mode, locking himself in his bedroom, and plugging his bass into Glenn’s old amp. The purist in him sneered at using a treble amp for a bass guitar, but for whatever reason (sentimentality, or just the laziness of having to get his amp from the garage), he couldn’t be bothered.

Around three in the afternoon on Sunday, he heard his father come home from Washington. “Felix?” Rodrigue called up the stairs, and then, likely thinking (or maybe hoping) that Felix couldn’t hear him, he called again, “Felix, I’m home.”

In response, Felix turned up the amp, and the sounds of the bass riff from “Aeroplane” by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, which he was currently practicing, drowned out his father’s voice. He heard Rodrigue’s footsteps pause on the stairs and then, defeated, they retreated to the living room. Felix kept the volume where it was.

( “I don’t get why you’re so mean to your dad,” Ingrid said once. “He’s nice to you, and God knows he puts up with a lot more of your shit than Dimitri’s dad would.”

“Comparing Rodrigue to Mr. Blaiddyd is like comparing a gym teacher to Genghis Khan,” Felix mused, causing Ingrid to groan in frustration.

“That. Is. Exactly. My. Point,” She hissed, but for whatever reason - distraction? boredom? Ingrid’s realization that she was never, _ever,_ going to get through to Felix? - they moved on.)

That night, when Felix emerged from his bedroom to forage in the kitchen for dinner, he noticed Rodrigue’s car was once again gone from the driveway. The only sign that he’d been home at all was a scrawled note attached to the fridge with a magnet: “Emergency business meeting. Scheduled a grocery delivery for tomorrow morning. Be home Wednesday night. Love, Dad.” 

(Felix ripped the note from the fridge and tossed it, in a crumpled ball, into the garbage.)

It hadn’t always been like this. He vaguely remembered a time - a long, long time ago, back when his mom was alive, probably, when Rodrigue spent more time at home than he did working. (Hell, not even working - Felix wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Rodigue spent most of his time _commuting._ ) These days, even when the two of them were in the same room, it was like Rodrigue was miles away. Like he was haunting the life he’d once lived. Like he was mourning - 

No. Felix wasn’t going to think about that.

He called Dorothea, who picked up on the first ring. 

“Hey, old man,” She said, and the sound of her voice was enough to shock Felix out of his stupor. “Why are you calling? Did someone die?”

“Not that I know of. Someone _somewhere_ must’ve,” He said, to which she laughed.

“Such is life. But I doubt you’re calling just to chat about our impending mortality… unless you are?

“Kind of. Got anything to smoke?” He asked.

“ _Felix_ ,” Dorothea gasped in mock-astonishment. “Naughty, _naughty.”_ She clicked her tongue. “What would Dimitri say?”

Fucking drama kids. Everything was always such an _ordeal._ “Is that a yes, or what?”

She sighed; like everything Dorothea ever did _,_ it was overdramatic. “I wish. Just cigs and e-cigs all the way down, I’m afraid.”

“What about your weird friend? The one who’s always sleeping. Lin...Lindbergh...”

“Do you mean _Linhardt_?” Dorothea asked. “Honestly, I’m not even sure if he smokes. I think he’s just like that.”

“No one’s just ‘like that’ without drugs” Felix argued. Dorothea made a humming noise somewhere between _sure_ and _you’re weirdly passionate about something that doesn’t matter, like, at all._

“I guess,” she said, sounding doubtful. She yawned. “Look, babe, you know how much I love to chat, but I have a voice lesson tomorrow at a murderous hour and I need my beauty sleep, so if there’s nothing else, I’ll see you at Claude’s?”

“You’re going?” Felix asked. A moment later, a second, more important question popped into his head - _and how did you know I’m going?_ \- before he answered himself: Sylvain, of course.

He could hear her smirk through the phone. “Hell would freeze over before you’d go to a party and I wouldn’t,” she said. “Sleep well, Felix.” With a faint _click,_ the line went dead.

_____

For a group of people who went to parties as a group approximately _never,_ Boar Prince had their pregaming ritual down to a _science_. Sylvain, the only one of them with a convincing fake ID, bought the shots: vodka for Ingrid and Dimitri, whiskey for Felix, and tequila for himself. Ingrid bought the chasers, which Felix thought was hilarious considering that Ingrid Galatea was the only person whose ability to down a shot of vodka without wincing could make Sylvain blush. Dimitri, whose overbearing parents perked up like police dogs at the _idea_ of underage drinking, brought the snacks. And Felix, whose empty house was even emptier given how little his father was home, hosted them all.

Normally, given their usual rule of “my house, my music,” this would’ve meant Felix was also in charge of the tunes. However, after a heated discussion, it was decided that, considering that Felix’s idea of “party music” was, in Sylvain’s words, “a fucking _bummer,_ ” literally _anyone else_ would pick the playlist.

(Felix, who took offense at the idea of his taste in music being labeled “a fucking bummer,” protested, at which point Sylvain asked, “Name literally one artist on your pregame playlist that would cause me to change my mind. Just one. Literally anything.”

Felix, wracking his brain for his memory of Top 40, offered, “Um… Beck?”

Sylvain blinked at him. “Beck?” He asked. “I ask you to pick party music and you pick Beck? _Beck_? Are you a fucking _psychopath?"_

And that was the end of that.)

Tonight, it was Sylvain’s turn to play DJ, which meant they were in for a lot of pop divas of the early 2000s with some Kendrick Lamar thrown in for Ingrid (and so Felix didn’t commit an act of violence.) Of the four of them, Sylvain’s music taste was easily the most varied, but this had both pros and cons. A pro was his surprising eclectic collection of vinyl records, including a near-mint edition of Pink Floyd’s _The Wall,_ bought from an antique dealer using his father’s guilt money and gifted to Felix one Christmas as a surprisingly thoughtful present. A con was his inability to distinguish between what Felix considered “good” music and “bad” music: after one too many road trips where Sylvain’s Spotify would abruptly shuffle from Joni Mitchell to the soundtrack of _High School Musical,_ a traumatized Felix vowed he’d never left Sylvain use the AUX ever, _ever_ again.

(To this, Sylvain had pouted, “What’s wrong with _High School Musical?_ It’s a cinematic masterpiece.”

“Yeah, Felix,” Ingrid agreed, more to piss Felix off than because she actually agreed with Sylvain. “Have a little taste.”

Sylvain had reached into the backseat to high-five Ingrid, seated in the right passenger side, at which point Dimitri had screeched " _EYES ON THE ROAD"_ and Sylvain swerved, narrowly avoiding the side door of a silver SUV. Felix took this as a sign that God agreed with him.) 

By the time Dimitri arrived at Felix’s, several bags of chips in his arms and a can of salsa in his free hand, Felix was drunk. Drunk as in _I’ve had yes many shots_ drunk, as Sylvain liked to call it. Drunk enough that the cheery 2000s pop from Sylvain’s horrendous playlist was starting to sound - God forbid - _good_. Not just tolerable, either, but full-on _enjoyable._

“Dimitri! My man!” Sylvain called over the thrumming of the bass. “You’re late!” Sylvain, to Felix’s eternal chagrin, was both someone who held his alcohol and someone who looked good in floral patterned shirts. Tonight, he was managing both, with a set of gold chains slung around his neck for good measure. On anyone else (Felix, for example), it would’ve looked ridiculous. On Sylvain, it cared an aura of effortless cool that communicated late 90s Leonardo-DiCaprio-as Romeo-Montague charm, a fact he was _certain_ Sylvain was aware of.

Sometimes, Felix really hated his best friend.

“Sorry,” Dimitri said sheepishly, shutting Felix’s front door behind him with his hip. “I hit traffic. We’re not gonna be late, are we?”

Sylvain made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Hardly. Invite said 9, which, by my calculations, means 9:30 at the earliest. We’ve got a half-hour. Make yourself at home.”

“What do you mean, make yourself at home?” Felix asked. “This is _my_ house.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, sure,” Sylvain said evenly. “More importantly, what snacks’ve you got there, Dima? Anything good?”

“Just the usual suspects. You sound like Ingrid,” Dimitri replied, grinning. “Speaking of - where is she? She’s not at Claude’s already, right?”

“She went upstairs like ten minutes ago,” Sylvain said, which was a good thing because Felix’s head was starting to thrum in a way that, while not entirely unpleasant, wasn’t entirely conducive to logical thinking or answering questions. Sylvain turned away from Dimitri to bellow up the stairs: “ _Oy_! Ingrid!”

Upstairs, Felix heard the faint shuffling. A door - possibly the bathroom door unlocked with a faint _click_ and a pair of heavy Doc Martens thudded on the upstairs hallway before Ingrid’s face came into view at the top of the stairs, both of her eyes lined with brown kohl. “What?” She called testily. 

“Where’d you go?” Sylvain called. “We miss you.”

“Not as much as I’m gonna miss Glenn’s record collection in the morning when Felix’s sober and remembers to lock the door,” Ingrid called down the stairs.

“Hang on.” Felix was drunk, but not _that_ drunk. “Uh, what _?_ ”

“I mean - What?” Ingrid took the opportunity to descend the staircase, her Docs thundering on the wood as she did. “Hey,! Dimitri! When’d you get here? Ooh, are those snacks?”

In a blur of chips, salsa, shots, and chasers, the next hour passed, until the bags of chips were crumbs, the salsa containers empty, and the four of them had consumed enough alcohol to tranquilize a horse. 

“We should get going, right?” Dimitri said at last. “It’s almost 9:30.” Something about the way he said this, with determined resignation, made Felix want to reassure him that parties were supposed to be _fun._ (Not that he had any experience with this, really, but that was what he heard, at least.)

Instead, he just swallowed. “Who’s driving?”

_____

Like Dimitri, Claude lived in what could, in polite terms, be considered “a nice part of town.” In Felix’s admittedly limited experience, this usually amounted to one of two things: first, multiple sports cars, usually Italian, parked in front like trophies, or two, more unusual, a swimming pool. Claude von Riegan, impressively, had both.

By the time their motley crew arrived, the party was in full swing. Luxury cars, the expensive kind that most Americans didn’t buy for their irresponsible teenage drivers, were parked along Claude’s enormous driveway and still managed to spill out into the street. Even outside the house, Felix heard the unmistakable thump of bass and - Christ, were those _strobe lights?_ He was regretting this already.

He was debating whether or not to turn tail and bail on the whole idea when Sylvain, as if sensing his inner turmoil, slung an arm around Felix’s shoulders and pulled Felix against his side, a gesture that was less comforting and more commanding.

Sylvain loved parties, which was tragic considering his friend group consisted of an angry jock (Ingrid), an awkward band geek (Dimitri), and an antisocial introvert (Felix). This usually meant he partied without them; most weekends, Ingrid, Felix, and Dimitri were left tracking his whereabouts in the background of junior girls’ blurry snap stories like some kind of party cryptid. Right now, pressed up against his side as Sylvain shepherded him to Claude’s front door, Felix could practically feel Sylvain _vibrating._

“Word on the street is Claude and Hilda are officially ‘off-again’ which is good news for yours truly because… ” Sylvain was saying, and then, realizing Felix was once again not listening, said, “Hey! Earth to Felix. You okay, buddy?”

“If you never call me ‘buddy’ ever again, it’ll be too soon,” Felix deadpanned. The two of them had, by this point, reached Claude’s front door which was, in a uniquely Claude von Riegan fashion, painted a deep shade of purple. On any other house in the neighborhood, the effect would’ve been gauche or try-hard, but on the Riegan house, it managed an effortless cool that Felix knew the suburban PTA moms on the neighborhood association must’ve _loathed_.

( _Why was he fixating on the color of Claude’s fucking front door?_ Right, because he hated parties and was only here as a favor to a friend, and his brain, desperately seeking an escape route, was only able to locate _paint_ _swatches_ as a distraction.) 

“Try to have fun, okay?” said Sylvain. “It’s a party. These things are fun, usually. Especially when Claude hosts. Like, the last time Claude threw a big party like this, according to Dorothea, it ended up with three kids spending the night in jail for grand theft auto, and someone ended up pregnant.”

“Were those things… _related_?” asked Felix.

“God, I hope not,” said Sylvain. “But I guess you had to be there.”

There was a pause, as the two of them stared at Claude’s front door, which Felix suspected he’d likely have memorized by tomorrow.

“So…” Sylvain started, and Felix sighed.

“Alright,” he said and pushed open the door as the two of them entered the house.

The inside of the house was an immediate sensory overload. Megan Thee Stallion blared from a set of truly enormous speakers mounted from the living room wall. In the far corner of the room, a karaoke machine waited, plugged into the wall but powered off, likely anticipating a point in the night when Claude’s guests were drunk enough to think karaoke was a good idea. Milling about the room was a sea of mostly strangers, likely juniors since Claude was a junior and Felix, a senior, didn’t recognize them. Just as he was turning to Sylvain to ask, the whirlwind of that was Hilda Valentine Goneril tore across the room in a tornado of pink hair and “ _Sylvieeeeeee! You’re here!”_ and swept Sylvain away, leaving Felix alone.

(Felix knew Hilda from how often Sylvain served as the “on-again” to Claude’s “off-again.” From what he remembered, she was the only member of the Garegg Mach cheerleading squad with hair the color of Pepto-Bismol. Then again, the last time he’d gone to a football game was sophomore year, when Dimitri, whose freshman enthusiasm hadn’t yet been crushed by the reality of high school, joined the marching band pit orchestra, and the members of Boar Prince dutifully made an appearance at every Friday night game in a show of solidarity. Maybe things had changed since then.)

Abandoned by Sylvain, and with Dimitri and Ingrid nowhere in sight, Felix desperately scanned the room in search of a familiar face. Sitting (where else) on the piano bench, he spotted Dorothea, who ignored the moon-eyed junior sitting at her feet to wave at him. 

He was halfway across the room to join her before he recognized said junior as Ferdinand von Aegir, one of Edelgard’s weird friends, the type who said shit like “our generation doesn’t understand love” and “dating apps are the death of romance.” Felix had met him once (against his will), and those shots from the pregame had long worn off, meaning he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to put up with _that_ bullshit, so ignoring Dorothea’s wounded look, he made a beeline for the kitchen in search of alcohol, and lots of it, instead.

On the way to the kitchen, a boy he didn’t recognize stopped him in his tracks. “Hey,” he said, and then again, louder, as if the volume had been the issue, “HEY!”

If Felix had been carrying a sword, he would’ve drawn it. “I don’t know where the bathroom is,” he said testily. “Ask someone else.”

“No - it’s not - I -” the boy stammered, suddenly nervous in the face of Felix’s full, undivided attention. He flushed, a deep scarlet color that Felix hadn’t been previously aware was even possible for humans to replicate. “It’s about the schedule… for callbacks next week? You know… for Boar Prince?”

Felix stared.

‘... your band?” The boy prompted.

“I know. I just don’t care,” Felix said, pushing past the boy into the kitchen.

“What? You don’t - hey! Wait!” The boy called after him, but Felix was gone, moving through the sea of people with the practiced ease of someone who spent a lot of time escaping from places he didn’t want to be.

In the kitchen, he found two juniors he recognized from his English class who, after they caught sight of his expression, nervously scurried away into the next room. Not that he blamed them, really. Something about this exact set of events - the reminder of callbacks, the horrible week of auditions, the night in general - seemed tailor-made as a microcosm of Felix’s personal hell.

What was that line? “Hell is other people?” For Felix, hell was other people’s parties.

He grabbed a cold can of hard cider from the cooler and settled down in the corner of the living room to sulk. This was going to be a _long_ night.

_____

Eventually, Felix migrated back to the living room to people-watch.

Dorothea and Ferdinand were still perched by the piano and seemingly hadn’t moved in an hour or so since he’d last seen them. Dorothea was laughing about something Ferdinand said and it looked like, at least from Felix’s point of view across the room, that she wasn’t pretending. (Which was insane to Felix, because when did Ferdinand von Aegir become _funny_?)

He was mulling over this thought when a faint _thump_ on the couch beside him signaled Ingrid’s arrival. (He knew it was Ingrid without looking because Sylvain was halfway across the room with his tongue down Hilda’s throat and something in the casual way the person next to him flung themself onto the furniture was very un-Dimitri like.)

“Hey,” she said as if reading his mind. “Have you seen Dimitri lately?”

Felix shook his head. “I think he’s hiding,” he said, to which Ingrid groaned.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she swore. “He’s _hiding?_ Wasn’t it his idea to come to this thing?”

Felix shrugged. “I don’t know. It definitely wasn’t _mine_.”

“That much,” Ingrid deadpanned. “is _very_ obvious.” Felix shoved her affectionately. It was a testament to how much she’d had to drink that she laughed and nuzzled his hair instead of shoving him back.

“At least I’m not doing _that,_ ” Felix added, gesturing across the room to Sylvain, whose fingers were getting dangerously close to the hem of Hilda’s baby pink tank top.

Ingrid only sighed. “The bar is in hell,” she said, with the gravity of a put-upon victorian governess, “and yet, he still trips.” She stood, reached a hand behind her neck and rolled her head in a slow, easy circle to stretch. “I guess that’s my cue to go rescue Dimitri so we can head home, huh? Where do you think he’s hiding, anyway? The coat closet?”

The irony of that image - Dimitri, hiding in a closet, at Claude’s house - was clearly lost on her, and Felix tried in vain to disguise his startled laugh as a cough. By the strange look on Ingrid’s face, he was only half-successful. “Something like that,” he said. “Hurry up, will you? Things are getting X-rated, and I _really_ want to leave before they do.”

“You know, you could always… go to a different room, right?” Ingrid asked. “Actually, no, nevermind, don’t do that. Someone needs to babysit him, just to make sure he doesn’t accidentally swallow his tongue.”

“Actually,” Felix observed, “I think Hilda’s taking care of that for us.”

Ingrid threw her hands in the air and skulked away.

_____

Sometime after Ingrid disappeared in search of Dimitri (Felix’s brain was mediocre at keeping track of time in the best of scenarios, nevermind as he was hovering in that hazy fugue of “not quite drunk and not quite sober” ), someone decided to fire up the ancient karaoke machine that had been lying dormant in the corner of the room. It could’ve been anyone, at least in theory, but Felix’s money was on Claude. For one thing, it was his house, and it was unlikely anyone else would’ve had the courage. For another, Claude seemed to revel in chaos in a way that Felix, a fierce defender of peace and quiet, found absolutely terrifying. Launching the hand grenade of drunk amateur karaoke on his own party seemed very in keeping with his character.

The first one at the microphone was Dorothea, who (Felix suspected) could smell an occasion to sing like a shark out for blood, and who (Felix also suspected) reacted far too coyly to the applause for her rendition of “Chandelier” for someone who was exclusively applying to performing arts colleges. Then came Hilda, who detached herself from Sylvain long enough to bounce her way through “Material Girl.” Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, to no one’s surprise, chose a show tune (what _was_ surprising was the standing ovation he got from Ferdinand, who was promptly _shushed_ by a mortified Dorothea.) 

Except for Dorothea, no one was what could, even generously, be considered a “good singer.” But at the same time, the performances were, for lack of a better word, “good.” At the very least, they were entertaining: by the time Claude wrapped up the last verse “Ice, Ice, Baby,” most of his guests who hadn’t gone home were migrating to the living room, captivated by the specific kind of magnetic energy that only drunk people making fools of themselves could create.

“Alright, alright. Who’s next? Felix?” Claude gestured at him with the karaoke microphone. “Wanna take her for a spin?”

Felix made a face that wordlessly communicated a variety of responses, the most polite of them being: _if you think I’m someone who “sings” “karaoke” at “parties,” you have me confused with someone else._

“Gonna take that as a _no_ ,” Claude muttered. He swung around, his eyes scanning the room in search of a volunteer. “C’mon, people, who wants to sing? Anyone?... Bueller? Bueller?”

“Um. I guess I can go if no one else is,” said a familiar voice. A voice Felix knew as Copier Girl, but Claude evidently knew as - 

“Annette!” Claude cheered. “Everyone, Annette here has just saved a life tonight. She’s just saved the life of the party.”

Felix understood with renewed clarity why Hilda bounced between Sylvain and Claude. They could be _disturbingly_ alike. (But that only made it all the more strange that Dimitri had - )

“Here you go, dear. Pick your poison,” Claude said with a wink, handing her the microphone. At the front of the room, standing in front of a sea of people, Copier Girl - Annette, Felix corrected himself - Annette looked incredibly small. In her small hand, the karaoke microphone looked impossibly big and heavy; Annette handled it like a baby bird, like something she was terrified of dropping.

“Oh. Hi! I’m Annette - well, I mean, obviously, Claude just said that’s my name, and it doesn’t really matter since this is karaoke, but - ” She giggled, shifting her weight from foot to foot (she was wearing, Felix noticed, Converse covered in bright blue glitter. He wondered if she’d made them herself.) “I don’t like to sing in front of people, like, ever,” Annette was saying. Her cheeks were flushed a pretty shade of crimson. “but we’re all going to forget this tomorrow, so why not try, right?”

Someone in the crowd cheered in response. This seemed to give her a boost of courage, and she pressed a button on the machine, locking in her song selection. Felix was struck by a sudden memory of a childhood sick day spent watching nature documentaries, peeking through his fingers as the hyenas caught up to the gazelle. _Don’t do it,_ he wanted to scream at Annette, _you’re drunk, and it’s not worth it. Just go home and forget this ever happened._

Annette couldn’t, of course, read his mind, and even if she did, he wasn’t sure what he was hoping to accomplish. All the same, he held his breath as the backing track kicked in, and Annette brought the microphone to her mouth and began to sing.

_____

At first, it seemed like Felix’s initial instinct had been right. Annette began hesitantly. _“I want you to know that I’m happy for you / I want nothing but the best for you both.”_

“Louder!” Someone jeered. Felix winced, but Annette seemed to take this as a challenge. She brought the microphone closer to her mouth and, with a defiant gleam in her eye, kept going:

“ _An older version of me/ Is she perverted like me?/ Would she go down on you in a theatre? Does she speak eloquently/ and would she have your baby?/ I’m sure she’d make a really excellent mother_.”

“Yeah, girl!” Someone called from the back of the room, and Annette grinned. Felix found himself resting his elbows on his knees as he, almost imperceptibly, leaned forward in his chair to watch. As she sang the bridge, he found himself, for reasons he couldn’t explain, holding his breath. 

“She’s good, right?” said a low voice beside him.

Felix jolted. “Sylvain?” He asked. “How long’ve you been there?”

Sylvain shushed him, as the chords built to a shuddering climax and Annette launched into the chorus.

“ _And I’m here_ ,” Annette wailed, and Felix was gone. The corners of Claude’s living room, the lukewarm cider in his hand, Sylvain’s warm body pressed against his side, all gone, all vanquished by the sheer raw power of the voice that sang of crosses and betrayal and heartbreak, granting “You Oughta Know” a level of pathos that didn’t seem possible from someone who accessorized her Chuck Taylors with blue glitter. 

_“It was a slap in the face how quickly I was replaced/ And are you thinkin' of me when you fuck her?_ ” Annette sang, and maybe if she’d spoken those words instead, would’ve seemed laughably out of place, but here, listening to her sing, it felt _right,_ somehow. Annette’s voice was more than music. It held him captive. It was a religious ritual, it was - 

“Holy shit,” Sylvain exhaled, and Felix realized with a jolt that the song was over. The room erupted into scattered applause, and Annette attempted a clumsy curtsy, giggling as she stumbled out of the living room to let someone else use the karaoke machine.

Felix turned to look at him. Sylvain was beaming like a child on Christmas. “Holy shit,” he repeated. “Fuck callbacks. Where was _she_ last week?”

_____

They managed to corner Annette outside in Claude’s front yard - they being Felix and Sylvain, but also Ingrid and, slung across her back like a rag doll, a completely  _ wasted _ Dimitri. Felix had expected Ingrid, the biggest Glenn devotee in the band, to voice some form of protest at the idea of finding his replacement without her input, but she’d only scowled, and gesturing to Dimitri, muttered something that sounded a lot like “bigger problems.”

“Need any help with him?” Sylvain asked, to which Ingrid snapped, “Oh,  _ now  _ he offers to help?” and Sylvain, wisely, let the matter drop.

And so, while Ingrid sat on Claude’s front porch with Dimitri, Sylvain and Felix tracked down Annette. It didn’t take them long to find her leaning against a cherry tree overlooking Claude’s driveway (the red hair and the blue Converse meant she stood out in a sea of identical black jeans and silky ponytails.) She was typing something into her phone, but she looked up as they approached, illuminating her face in an eerie blue-lit glow.

“Hey,” Sylvain said. “Annette, right?”

Annette looked wary, which Felix understood. Sylvain was smiling at her in a way that was almost disturbingly charming. “Um,” She said, blinking up at him, and then, “yes?,” which came out as a question.

“Cool,” Sylvain said, still wearing that disarmingly handsome smile. “I’m Sylvain, and this is Felix. It's a pleasure.” Annette, who had been, up until this point, staring at Sylvain, peered around him to glance at Felix. Her eyes, Felix noticed up close, were a delicate shade of blue that made her look like a porcelain doll.

“So listen,” Sylvain continued. “I don’t know if you know this, but Felix and me, we’re in a band. Trouble is, our old lead singer just graduated, so we were up a creek without a paddle if you know what I’m saying. But then we heard you sing, and we thought - “

“You  _ what? _ ” Annette interrupted shrilly. 

“Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sylvain held up his hands. “No need to be modest. You’ve got some real pipes, and we need a singer. Between the two of us, the auditions we’ve had have been  _ pr-etty  _ horrible. We could use someone like you. Whaddya say?”

“A band?” Annette repeated. All of the color had drained from her face. “Me? Sing? In a  _ band?  _ Oh no. No way. I don’t sing.” __

Felix shot Sylvain a warning look, which he promptly ignored. “Don’t sing? What do you call what you did back inside there, then?”

“A bad decision,” said Annette, who looked pale. “Just a stupid, drunk decision that I’m never going to do ever again.”

“Aww, don’t say  _ that,” _ Sylvain pouted, at the same time that Felix hissed “Sylvain” under his breath.

“What?” Sylvain muttered back in a stage-whisper. “You heard her sing. Do you have a better idea? Do you  _ want  _ to sit through a week of callbacks next week? Be my fucking guest, pal.”

They turned back to Annette, who was still staring at them with the terrified expression of a cornered animal. Felix felt like he should say something, but what would he even say? “I haven’t been to church since I was eight, but when you sang karaoke, I felt like I heard God?” That’s not a thing normal people just…  _ say…  _ to complete strangers.

“Look,” Sylvain said gently at last. “Consider it a trial period, alright? You come to a few rehearsals,you get a feel for the band, we get a feel for you - not like that,” he added hastily, reading something into her panicked expression. “No contracts, no paperwork, no performances, just some friends playing music. How’s that sound?”

“I—” Annette started. Her eyes flitted from Felix, to Sylvain, and back to Felix once again. And then, without any warning, she leaned forward and vomited on the pavement.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercedes squeezed out of the booth, grabbing Annette’s empty milkshake container as she did. She turned, and looked back at Annette. “It’ll be okay,” she said reassuringly. “It was just a party. I’m sure everyone’s forgotten about it already.”
> 
> Annette exhaled, long and slow. “Mercie,” she said. “I really, really hope you’re right.”

Annette didn’t admit to herself that the throbbing pain in her head qualified as a hangover until she’d exhausted every other possibility.

It was midmorning when she opened her eyes, and even later when at last, groaning, she’d pulled herself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to survey the damage. Unsurprisingly, she looked awful: a thick layer of black eye makeup dotted her lower lashline, while her hair, which she’d spent hours curling, had settled into an amorphous frizz. That, of course, was to say nothing of the sour taste in her mouth, or the ringing in her ears, or the pounding in her skull that drummed with the fury of a thousand armies. 

She ran the tap and splashed some cool water from the sink on her face. _“This_ , Annie,” she said to her reflection, “is Exhibit A of why we don’t drink.”

_____

Twenty minutes later, she was showered, dressed, and sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, scrolling through Instagram as she tried to piece together the events of the night before. 

She’d gone to Claude’s with some girls she knew from choir, but her memory afterward was a blur that came to her in flashes: here she was drinking a beer (and promptly regretting it, because beer was _disgusting_ ); here she was fixing her eyeliner in the hall bathroom; here she was listening to a stranger complain about his ex-boyfriend, who sounded like a real piece of work. Nothing concrete, and _certainly_ nothing that explained the mystery of how she’d gotten home, and at what time, and - the biggest mystery of all - what exactly had happened that inspired her to wake up with such a deep sense of _wrong_ the morning after.

She hadn’t… _hooked up_ with anyone, had she? No, Annette decided, knowing without knowing how she knew, it wasn’t that. But then, what was it? Mulling it over, she ate a spoonful of Lucky Charms and continued scrolling, hoping something online would spark a memory that would unlock the entire mystery.

As luck would have it, it seemed like the entire school had been at Claude’s. Photo after photo of drunk high school students flashed across her screen

Hilda and Claude sprawled across a futon in each others’ arms; Dorothea tilting her head back to laugh at something to her left; Caspar, shirtless, flexing next to a completely nonplussed Linhardt. 

Pieces of a larger puzzle, but not the pieces she needed. Annette frowned and kept scrolling.

Ferdinand with his arm around Edelgard, who looked bored out of her mind; Marianne, her hand covering her face in a futile attempt at hiding from the photographer; Sylvain and - 

Hang on. Wait a minute.

Annette scrolled back and clicked on the photo, taking her to the full-size image on (what was presumably) Sylvain’s profile.

The photo displayed Sylvain and three of his friends, sprawled across Claude’s couch with the practiced ease of people who’d never learned how to be uncomfortable around each other. “4 bros, chillin’ on a big couch” read the caption. Underneath it, someone had commented, “dont u mean 3 bros + ingrid.” to which the uploader had replied, “ingrid is the biggest bro of them all.” (The comment had 33 likes).

Annette stared at the image until it was burned into her retinas. Why did it feel so familiar? She took another spoonful of cereal and inspected the photo, feeling just a bit like her heroine Nancy Drew (or maybe that was just wishful thinking).

At the far left of the couch, Dimitri blinked up at the camera, as if he’d been startled by the flash. 

Annette remembered Dimitri from middle school, back before Dimitri’s dad married Edelgard’s mom and bought a bigger house in a better part of town, and they weren’t on the same bus route anymore. 

Back then, they used to walk home from the bus stop together, united by a shared love of music and history and geeky science fiction television. Dimitri rarely said a word in class, but Annette only had to mention _Doctor Who_ once for him to launch into an enthusiastic tirade about bad CGI and the BBC’s budget struggles.

Not that Dimitri remembered any of this, Annette thought, or had to put up with Mama nudging her about inviting “that nice Dimitri boy from school” over for dinner sometime (to which Annette would grumble something about how she was sixteen, not _six,_ and no one had playdates any more, _Mama_ , instead of admitting out loud that she missed him and only had the passage of time to blame for how much they’d grown apart.) 

Anyways. _Anyways._ She moved on to the next figure in frame.

Next to Dimitri was Ingrid, who was leaning on his shoulder. A few wispy strands escaped from her messy blonde braid, and she was smiling. _Huh,_ thought Annette, who’d spent the bulk of her high school years half-convinced that Ingrid was born without the necessary facial muscles to make that particular expression.

She and Annette had been in the same AP World History section the year before, and when it came time for the infamous annual “should we have dropped the bomb on Japan” debate, Ingrid eviscerated everyone who argued in favor with so much righteous fury that two boys started to cry and a third went to the nurse’s office to hyperventilate. Annette agreed with Ingrid, _obviously_ , but something about the way that Ingrid refused to let up, long after it became clear that everyone in the class either agreed with her or was too scared to say otherwise, was _terrifying._

Then came Sylvain, his arm slung around Ingrid’s shoulders and his head thrown back in what Annette assumed was laughter (but could’ve just as easily been a sneeze.) Something about Sylvain, his shirt unbuttoned to his navel ( _floral_ , she noted, which was a bold choice) caused something to flicker in the back of her mind. She grasped at it desperately and came up with a memory she’d long forgotten:

Freshman year, the week of final exams, she’d been crying in a corner of the library because she’d overbooked herself and forgotten to check out the books for her essays, leaving her completely adrift when the library’s only copy of _The Complete Works of Sylvia Plath_ was labelled as “MISSING” in the reference catalog.

Sylvain, who happened to be passing through, stopped at the edge of her table.“Hey, what’s wrong? I hate to see a cute girl cry,” he said, and Annette, running on three cups of coffee and her Adderall prescription, blurted out in a single, breathless gasp,

“ _Ineedtowriteanessaybuttheydon’thavethebookIneedandeverythingisawfulandI’mgoingtoFAIlL-”_

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he’d said. “Slow down. What book?”

“ _The Bell Jar,_ ” she sniffed, and to her eternal shock, he brightened.

“Sylvia Plath, right? Hey, I have that one; it’s in my locker. Be right back.”

At the time, she’d been so grateful that she hadn’t thought to ask why someone like Sylvain would casually own a copy of _The Bell Jar_ , or why he’d offer it up to a complete stranger at the drop of a hat. It was a well-worn copy, too: flipping through it to find the quotes she needed, she stumbled upon the line _“If you expect nothing from somebody you are never disappointed,”_ which had been underlined several times in black pen.

Snapping back to the present, she stared at the photo. Sylvain… that wasn’t what was bothering her, was it? No, she decided; no, that wasn’t it. _But then, what was?_

She took another spoonful of cereal and, chewing pensively, moved on to the far right of the photo. 

If Dimitri was a former friend, Ingrid was a terror, and Sylvain was an enigma, Felix Fraldarius was a blank page. She knew, Annette realized with a start, absolutely nothing about him. _Nothing._ Nothing about his interests, his hobbies, his personality - did he _have_ a personality outside of his three friends?, she wondered, puzzling over the mess of dark hair and the brown eyes that gazed into the camera as if sizing up an opponent. What, to put it bluntly, was Felix’s _deal_ ? The longer she stared at his face, the more sure Annette was that Felix was the key that would unlock this whole confusing puzzle. _Think, brain,_ she thought, _think, think, think._

And then, against all odds, that was all it took. 

In an instant, her memories came racing back to her: the exact moment when beer stopped being disgusting and started being _delicious, and I’ll take another, actually._ A room full of complete strangers, a karaoke machine, and a song that was normally reserved for the shower. Waiting outside Claude’s for her ride, and vomiting on the pavement. Felix muttering, “Oh, Christ,” as Sylvain went back to the kitchen for water. Annette’s muttered apology as someone was closing the passenger door of a waiting car.

Her wrist went slack, and the cereal spoon clattered noisily to the kitchen table.

 _Oh no. Oh no. Oh no, no,_ ** _no_** _,_ ** _no_** _,_ ** _NO_** _._ This could _not_ be happening.

Annette, who by pure luck happened to be the only one home, put her head in her hands and began to scream.

_____

By the time she’d biked to Fergus’s, Annette’s panic had dialed down to a dull roar. 

Mercedes, who was working her typical 12-5 shift, glanced up from counting change at the register as the bell by the door clattered. She took one look at Annette, whose eyes betrayed her by brimming over with humiliated tears, and called back to the kitchen, “I’m taking my thirty.”

As they waited for the enormous slice of cherry pie they’d ordered to split between them to cool off enough to eat, Annette took a long sip of her strawberry milkshake.

“Tell me what happened,” Mercedes prodded gently.

Annette shook her head. “It’s too embarrassing.”

“More embarrassing than the time you tried to cook a frozen pizza and forgot to take the plastic off first and you set off the smoke alarm?” Mercedes teased.

“Definitely,” said Annette, taking another sip of the milkshake.

Mercedes frowned thoughtfully. “Okay, how about… more embarrassing than the time you showed up to school in PJs because you thought spirit week started on Monday and it actually started on Tuesday, so everyone else was still wearing uniforms?”

It was Annette’s turn to frown. “Wasn’t that you?”

“Oh,” said Mercedes. She giggled. “You’re right. That one _was_ me.” She took a bite of the pie, immediately wincing at the temperature, and set her fork back down on her plate. “But the question still stands, right? More or less embarrassing?”

Annette sighed. “More. Much, _much_ more.”

Mercedes made a sympathetic noise and reached across the table to take Annette’s hand in hers. “I’m sure it’s not _that_ bad,” she said, squeezing Annette’s hand once before letting it drop. “And you might feel better once you get it off your chest.”

“Promise you won’t laugh?” Annette asked. Mercedes nodded solemnly.

“Okay,” Annette exhaled. “Well, so, I went to a party last night, right? And I had a lot to drink, and someone brought out a karaoke machine, and my dumb drunk brain decided it was a good idea to _sing karaoke._ ” 

She paused, prompting Mercedes to ask, “Is this the embarrassing part?”

“I’m getting there,” Annette swallowed. “So then I went outside to get some air, and these two guys came over to talk to me about something” (she decided to leave out the whole ‘will you join our band’ thing, which she hadn’t really _processed_ yet) “and then I just...I just…”

Mercedes was watching her expectantly, and Annette, in a cruel parody of the night before, blurted out: “I threw up on the driveway.”

“Oh, _honey_ ,” Mercedes crooned, but Annette wasn’t done.

“And the worst part was, they were so nice about it, like, way nicer than I deserved, and it was just so embarrassing, and they probably both completely _hate me_.”

“I’m sure they don’t hate you,” Mercedes offered. “If someone hates you for throwing up when you’ve had too much to drink, I think that says more about their character than yours.”

“Easy for you to say,” grumbled Annette. “You weren’t there. There was _carnage,_ Mercie.” She took a last, lingering sip of her milkshake and pushed the empty glass to one side. “And anyway, you don’t hate _anybody._ You’re a _saint_.”

“I’m not a saint,” Mercedes said distractedly. She yawned and rubbed her left eye with her closed fist. “I’m just a person.”

For the first time that day, Annette inspected her best friend. Mercedes, her light brown hair pulled back into her waitressing ponytail, looked exhausted. She was only three years older than Annette, but she carried herself with a quiet resignation that suggested wisdom far beyond her years.

They’d met when Annette was thirteen and mourning the loss of Dimitri’s friendship after his new bus route meant they didn’t have an excuse to walk home together anymore. Mercedes was sixteen and had just moved in down the street; she offered to give Annette a ride home one rainy afternoon, and the rest was history. 

Mercedes had been accepted into an exclusive theology program at an east-coast college; she’d gone for a single semester before dropping out and returning to her usual shift at the diner. “I need to figure some things out,” was all she’d said when Annette had asked, “and college is too expensive for soul-searching.” She worked nights and weekends and moved to a cheap apartment across town to save on rent. “I don’t mind,” she said, but she smiled in a way that didn’t meet her eyes.

“You’re _my_ person,” Annette said at last, fiercely, earning her a tired smile. 

Across the diner, the doorbell chimed, signaling the beginning of the dinner rush. Mercedes glanced at the clock. “My break’s almost over. Want me to grab a take-out container for the pie?”

Annette started to shake her head, and then paused, before nodding instead. Mercedes smiled.

“I’ll put some Peppermint Patties in the box.”

Mercedes squeezed out of the booth, grabbing Annette’s empty milkshake container as she did. She turned, and looked back at Annette. “It’ll be okay,” she said reassuringly. “It was just a party. I’m sure everyone’s forgotten about it already.”

Annette exhaled, long and slow. “Mercie,” she said. “I really, _really_ hope you’re right.”

_____

Linhardt was already sitting at his usual desk when Annette showed up to homeroom, which was, in a word, _unusual_ , given that homeroom was their first class of the day. Linhardt had a Complex about circadian rhythms and sleep cycles, particularly if that precious sleep cycle was being interrupted by something as _utterly trivial_ as a schoolwide study hall (or so he’d told Annette on one of the few occasions he’d managed to drag himself out of bed in time for attendance.)

And yet, defying all odds, there he was, sipping from a large iced coffee as Annette squeaked past him to slide into her chair moments before the bell rang. 

“Good morning,” said Annette, breathlessly. She began to pull out an assortment of colorful folders from her backpack, running down a mental checklist of upcoming assignments as she did: _English essay; chemistry homework; math problem set._ “You’re up bright and early.”

“Only by accident,” said Linhardt, who hadn’t looked up from the enormous book currently propped open on his desk. A cursory glance over his shoulder informed Annette that he was reading something called _The Mothman Prophecies_. “I had an appointment. It was less work to come to homeroom afterward than it would’ve been to go back home before my first class.” He paused thoughtfully. “In hindsight, I suppose I should’ve just stayed home for the entire day. Ah, well.”

“What kind of appointment?” asked Annette, who was never entirely sure how seriously to take Linhardt. 

“Dentist,” Linhardt said, turning a page in his book. “So, nothing exciting. They’re not doing fluoride cleanings anymore; did you know that? I wonder why they decided to change things. It’s not like the percentage of fluoride in our water grew within the last year.”

“Um, I guess I hadn’t ever thought about it,” admitted Annette, whose semi-annual checkup was still three months away. “But isn’t that good, though? That nothing exciting happened?”

She wasn’t sure what type of response she’d been expecting (some droll aside about Linhardt’s allergy to boredom, probably). Instead, Linhardt dogeared his book, swiveled around in his chair, and asked, “And karaoke at Claude’s? Does that qualify as ‘nothing exciting’?”

Annette almost dropped her pen. “I—What? No,” she stammered. “Hang on a second. We were talking about your _dentist_ . That was _very clearly_ a statement about your dentist.”

“And that was boring, so now we’re not,” said Linhardt evenly. “Tell me about what happened at Claude’s. I want details.”

 _Wasn’t that the million-dollar question_ , Annette mused. Honestly, she was still puzzling out the answer to that one herself.

She tried for what was (she hoped) a nonchalant shrug. “Nothing. It was nothing. Totally not a big deal _._ It was just, you know, a party, and stuff that happened at parties, just, kind of… happened,” she finished lamely.

From the look Linhardt was giving her, it was clear she hadn’t given a very convincing performance. She attempted a different strategy. “You weren’t there?”

This seemed to work, at least temporarily. Linhardt sighed. “Yes and no,” he said. “I was outside in the garden attempting to talk Caspar off a ledge.”

“ _What_ ?” Annette screeched, so sharply that several of their classmates turned to look at her. “Oh my God. When? Why? How are you acting so _calm_?”

Linhardt blinked at her. “Ah. No,” he shook his head, “not the proverbial ledge. This was an actual, literal ledge. He said something about doing a backflip.”

“Is he hurt?” pressed Annette.

Linhardt made a noncommittal gesture. “A bruised ego, but otherwise, he’s fine.” He frowned. “You’re changing the subject.”

Annette bit her lower lip and avoided his probing gaze by picking at the edges of her pale pink nail polish. “I don’t know what to tell you,” she said (which was true.) “I don’t even really remember it,” she added (which wasn’t.)

Linhardt, disappointed, turned around in his chair to face the front of the room. “Of course,” he sighed, reopening his book with a defeated air, “it _would_ be just my luck that the one and only time you do something spontaneous, I don’t see it and you don’t remember it.”

 _One and only time?_ Years of talking to Linhardt told Annette that this was meant as an innocent observation rather than an insult, but that didn’t mean that it stung any less. Sometimes, Linhardt’s “observations” managed to hurt more than any intentional slight. _I can be spontaneous,_ she wanted to tell him, but somehow, she suspected this wouldn’t help her case.

They spent the rest of the class period in silence.

_____

The thing about Dorothea was that, if this were a bad coming of age film instead of real life, Annette probably would’ve hated her. The first and most obvious reason for this was her talent, which, combined with an easy charisma, landed her solos, leading roles, and sizable scholarships to expensive vocal instructors that Annette feverishly envied.

And that would’ve been bad enough by itself, but Dorothea was also hardworking, incredibly well-liked, and - Annette hated to admit this to herself because of how horribly cliche it was - really, really pretty. So pretty that when she and Annette (who were co-section leaders) sat next to each other in rehearsals, Annette would sometimes glance at Dorothea, and then down at herself, and then back at Dorothea, and think in despair that they couldn’t _possibly_ be wearing the same school uniform.

The point was, Annette had reasons to hate Dorothea. But Dorothea, in addition to all of her other positive traits, was also exceptionally, unfailingly kind. (Which, in a bizarre way, almost made it easier to dislike her - who was she to be smart, talented, hot, _and_ kind? You only got to be one or two of those things. It was just unfair to everyone else.)

Today, for example, as Annette walked into the choir room, Dorothea was sitting with Ferdinand, who had migrated from the tenor section to the soprano section for the last few minutes before class. Ferdinand was talking animatedly, gesturing with his hands to punctuate his points; Dorothea frowned at him skeptically, interrupting every few seconds with a “What?” or a “No way.” Annette caught snippets of their conversation as she passed.

“Comparing Malloy to Sondheim is totally ridiculous,” Ferdinand was saying as Annette pulled her choir folder from her backpack. “Sondheim is a genius. Will anyone even remember Dave Malloy in twenty years?”

“You’re just bitter because you couldn’t get tickets to _Great Comet_ before it closed,” sniffed Dorothea. “You’d understand if you saw it.”

“Sondheim’s works have run for thousands of performances,” countered Ferdinand. “The only Malloy on Broadway was _Great Comet,_ and that closed after a few months. How good could it have been?”

Dorothea gasped and placed a hand over her heart. “How _dare_ you. That was a tragic loss. I’m still in mourning. Annette —” 

“Hm?” asked Annette, who by this point was sitting down next to Dorothea.

“Settle this for us, would you? Who’s the better composer: Stephen Sondheim or Dave Malloy?”

Dorothea looked at her expectantly, and Annette wracked her brain for the correct answer. And there _was_ a correct answer, even if Dorothea was only asking for her opinion, because that was just how Annette’s mind worked. People liked her, or they despised her and were just talking to her because they pitied her. They thought she was smart, or everything that came out of her mouth was stupid and terrible and she should never volunteer her ideas again. She was talented, or she was useless and couldn’t do anything and was just fooling herself to think she could.

“Sondheim- I think?” she said at last. “He has more musicals, right? Maybe Dave Malloy might be better in the future, but it doesn’t really seem fair to compare them right now - but they’re so different, anyway, so it’s apples and oranges.”

She’d intended this as a compromise, but Ferdinand took it as complete and total agreement. “See? Annette agrees with me,” he said triumphantly. “The classic composers are classics for a reason. Sondheim is the master of the leitmotif. Annette, I’m glad you recognize that.”

“Ugh, Ferdie, you’re making him sound so _boring,_ ” groaned Dorothea. “Are you going to get out a little bell and start dinging it every time there’s a continuity error in _Jurassic Park_ , too?” 

They bickered back and forth while Annette, feeling somewhat out of place, opened the folder containing her music and glanced at the selections: the Gloria from Mozart’s _Coronation Mass in C Major;_ the Hebrew Slaves’ Chorus from _Nabucco_ ; the Kyrie from Beethoven’s _Missa Solemnis;_ the Flower Duet from _Lakme._

(That last one, their director had promised, would be a duet, at which point she glanced meaningfully between Dorothea and Annette. As if, Annette thought, she’d have the courage to audition for a _duet_ . Then again, she _had_ just proved she was capable of singing in front of a crowd of strangers completely unrehearsed. Maybe she’d audition after all.)

“Oh! Annette,” Ferdinand said, and Annette closed the music. “I heard you made a big impression at Claude’s party. You must’ve been good if they canceled callbacks.”

“What?” It took Annette a moment to understand what he meant. _Shit_. The band. Were they really canceling callbacks? She hadn’t even given Sylvain and Felix an answer yet, she realized guiltily. And how did Ferdinand know about that conversation? “Oh, no, I didn’t— I’m not—”

Next to Ferdinand, Dorothea shot him a dirty look. “Nice going, genius,” she muttered, so quietly that Annette strained to hear her. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to say anything about that.”

“Right. Yes,” Ferdinand corrected course. “Erm, I meant —”

Annette, both out of pity and a selfish desire to change the subject, decided to throw him a lifeline. “How were yours? Your callbacks, I mean. For the musical,” she clarified, in case it hadn’t been obvious.

Immediately, Ferdinand brightened. “Oh, they went well! I’ve always liked Leonard Bernstein, and _West Side Story_ is a classic, of course, so I’m looking forward to rehearsals. Let’s see… I’ll be playing Tony, Dorothea is Maria, Lorenz is Riff…” 

“He’s just speculating,” interrupted Dorothea. “We won’t actually know the cast until the weekend.”

“As if anyone else would be our Maria,” Ferdinand said, and she beamed.

( Annette envied their easy intimacy. For a long time, she’d wondered if they were secretly dating. When she’d voiced this question one afternoon after rehearsal, Dorothea had laughed so hard that tears had sprung to her eyes “Who, me? Me and F-Ferdie? _Dating_?”

“Is it really that strange to imagine dating me?” Ferdinand had asked, wounded, and she’d kissed him sloppily on the forehead, leaving the faint red imprint of her lipstick on his skin.

“You know I love you. If we’re both single in twenty years, you’re my sperm donor, hands-down. But dating? _Us?_ _Now_? Oh, honey…” )

“Congratulations!” said Annette. “Or - wait, can I say that? Is there some secret theatre superstition about congratulating people for parts they haven’t officially gotten yet?”

“Not really,” said Dorothea. “I mean, it’s a _little_ gauche. But it’s an open secret, and Ferdie’s already crossed that bridge, so…” She shrugged. 

Annette felt stupid. Of _course_ there wasn’t some secret superstition about congratulating people for successful auditions; that would’ve been _insane._ She almost apologized for even asking, but Dorothea didn’t look like she minded, and besides, that would’ve been an even more insane thing to do. Who apologized for asking a question? 

“Well, congratulations, then,” she said awkwardly. “Both of you. Seriously. You’re gonna be great.”

Dorothea opened her mouth, about to say something more when their director tapped the podium and announced that they would begin with a major scale, and any potential for conversation was lost in a sea of “ _Do, Do-Re-Do, Do-Re-Mi-Re-Do…_ ” 

_____

“I’m sorry about him,” Dorothea said after class. She and Annette were headed to the second floor for art history (Dorothea) and French III (Annette), while Ferdinand stayed in the arts wing for drama, which meant Dorothea could speak candidly. “He’s very cute and very dumb. Like a Golden Retriever: nothing in that beautiful head but elevator music and love.”

“It’s okay,” said Annette, who had, out of necessity, made her peace with the whole affair at Claude’s. “People were gonna find out eventually, I guess.” Something occurred to her, and she added, “But what did he mean about canceling callbacks, though?”

Dorothea sighed. “It wasn’t anything official. They were just thinking about it. No real decisions or anything, so don’t feel guilty.”

“Guilty?” Annette frowned. “Why would I feel guilty?”

“Because you’re not joining their band,” said Dorothea. Annette said nothing, so Dorothea turned to look at her and raised an eyebrow. “And you’re _not_ joining… are you?”

“No,” Annette muttered, defeated. “I don’t think so.” 

Dorothea gave her a long, probing look. Annette fidgeted, wishing she had something to do with her hands. “Well,” Dorothea said at last. “You should probably tell them. Just to make it official and all, you know?”

 _I didn’t even audition,_ Annette wanted to scream. _Why is everyone acting like this is something I signed up for?_ And then, almost instantly, a second thought: _And why does everyone assume it’s something I’d turn down?_

“Yeah. I will,” she promised. They’d stopped walking, hovering in the doorway of Annette’s French class. “Do you know where I could - find them? Or, I guess, just one, since it’s not like I need to, um, announce it to everyone at the same time.”

Dorothea thought for a moment. “Felix likes the bleachers,” she offered. “The ones by the soccer field, not the football field.”

“The bleachers,” Annette repeated. Right, okay, she could do that.

Dorothea gave her a smile. “He doesn’t bite,” she said. “But I can go with you if you want.”

“I don’t need a _babysitter,”_ Annette snapped as the warning bell rang. She immediately regretted it, but Dorothea only shrugged in a way that suggested _calm down, it was just a suggestion_ and set off down the hallway.

_____

Even with Dorothea’s impromptu pep talk, it still took Annette two days to work up the courage to find Felix. It wasn’t like any of the other members of Boar Prince would’ve been any easier: with Dimitri, it was the uncomfortable baggage of their past friendship and the knowledge that Dimitri, more than any of the others, desperately needed this band to exist; with Ingrid, the terror of facing down a stern lecture, or even worse, one of the “I’m not mad, just disappointed” variety; with Sylvain… well, based on precedent, there were good odds she’d walk away from _that_ conversation so flustered that it would take her a whole month to realize she’d never actually declined the offer.

So, mostly by process of elimination, Felix was the easiest. That still didn’t make it _easy._

Because Annette hated saying no to people, even when ‘no’ was the most logical option, and especially when saying ‘no’ meant not participating in something. That was how she’d ended up on the swim team, a mathlete, in the Spanish club (despite not speaking a word _en español_ ), designing sets for the spring musical, ushering for the annual convocation ceremony - the list went on, and on, and on. 

“My girl. So busy with school, but she still makes time for all these activities,” Mama would say with pride. Annette, more than anything else in the world, hated the thought of disappointing her.

(Joining a garage band wasn’t exactly something you put on your college applications, but, on an emotional level, Annette had a difficult time distinguishing.)

In the end, it was mostly coincidence and bad timing that prompted her to finally talk to Felix. She’d stayed behind on Friday afternoon to chat with the art teacher about signing up for pottery club, and by the time she’d made it outside, the fleet of school buses had departed. Unlike most juniors, Annette didn’t have a car, and because Garegg Mach was out of biking distance, she typically relied on the bus. Sometimes, the stars aligned and Mama or Mercedes was just getting out of work as she was getting out of school; other times, she had rehearsals, clubs, and meetings that meant she could take the activity bus home. Today, she occupied the unfortunate temporal black hole that rendered both options useless.

As she went down the mental list of who to call for a ride, she happened to glance over at the soccer field. The field, and the bleachers, were empty; unsurprisingly, since there weren't any games scheduled for two weeks. But there, true to Dorothea’s word, sat Felix, who was sprawled across two rows of seats with a pair of headphones in his ears.

Annette stared. If this wasn’t a sign from the universe that she should just _get over herself,_ she didn’t know what was. “Okay,” she exhaled. “Fine, okay, I’m doing this,” and began to walk.

_____

Annette had hoped that by the time she’d made it to the bleachers she’d be feeling a _bit_ braver. Maybe not _brave,_ exactly, because there was only so much you could ask of the universe on a three-minute walk across the parking lot, but certainly less afraid.

The universe, the one that had been so keen to point her in Felix’s direction, didn’t appear to be in a giving mood. If anything, Annette felt _more_ nervous as she stumbled onto the bleachers, her uniform-complaint ballet flats thundering on the steel.

“Um, hi,” she said once she was in earshot of Felix, and then, “Is this seat taken?”

Felix looked at her, saying nothing. _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ Annette thought, _what do you mean, is this seat taken? The bleachers are totally empty. Unless I’m asking if he has an invisible ghost friend, of_ **_course_ ** _this seat isn’t taken._

But Felix just shrugged, taking his headphones out of his ears. “All yours,” he said, and Annette was so grateful that she could’ve cried. She sat down carefully, cradling her backpack in her lap.

“So, um,” she said at last, playing with her fingers and looking at her shoes. “I’m really sorry. About what happened. At Claude’s. The whole, you know…” She trailed off, flushed, desperately hoping against all odds that Felix wouldn’t make her elaborate.

Felix, mercifully, seemed to intuit this. “It’s fine,” he said. “Seriously, I know Sylvain. That was nothing.”

He likely intended this to be comforting, but somehow, Annette felt even worse. Having your party antics compared to Sylvain’s was damning with faint praise: compared to him, _anyone_ would look like a monk. If “it’s fine, at least you weren’t Sylvain” was all Felix could come up with, that wasn’t exactly a point in Annette’s favor.

“Um, okay.” She shifted in her seat. “Anyways, listen, I just wanted to tell you that I’ve been thinking a lot about what you asked, about joining your band, and I’m really, really flattered and all—”

“But you’re not,” Felix finished.

Annette blinked. Later, she would wonder if, in a world where she hadn’t survived a week’s worth of “there’s no _way_ Annette Dominic would join a _rock band; c_ an you _imagine?_ ”, she would’ve been a little more forgiving “Hang on,” she complained. “I wasn’t finished yet. How do you know I wasn’t planning on saying yes?”

Felix gave her a look. “No one takes an entire week to say ‘yes, I’ll join your band,’” he said. And, okay, he had a point, but Annette, who felt a strange need to defend - her honor? her integrity as a musician? her reputation as a “joiner”? - shot back:

“You don’t know that. I could’ve been…” _Think, think, think._ “Weighing my options.”

“Your _options,_ ” Felix repeated. He was sitting up straight now and watching Annette with a sort of amused curiosity. It seemed like he was trying not to laugh. _Try harder, asshole,_ she thought, failing to keep the irritation from her face. What, was it such a strange idea that someone else would recognize her talent?

(This hypothetical other band did not, of course, exist, nor did Annette fully believe in the idea of her own “talent,” but that was beside the point.)

“Yeah, my options,” she said crossly. “Your flyers said there’s a Battle of the Bands invitational in October, right?” Without waiting for Felix to respond, she continued, “Well, obviously, you don’t compete against yourself.”

The corner of his lip quirked in what looked like the beginnings of a smile. “You tell me. You’re the one fielding all these _options_.”

 _Damn_. So he’d caught that. “Okay, fine. You caught me.” She admitted, looking at her knees. “I made that all up. The truth is…” Annette took a deep breath. “No. The truth is… my answer is no. And it’s not even because of some noble reason, or because of a scheduling conflict, it’s because… I can’t.”

A light breeze blew over the soccer field. A car drove past with its windows down, a loud rock song blaring from the speakers. Felix said nothing.

“And I didn’t tell you for a whole week, any of you,” Annette spoke quickly, filling the silence with the sound of her own voice, “not because I had a good reason, but because I… I…. I…” She swallowed, realizing for the first time that she wasn’t sure. Why _had_ she been avoiding him? It couldn’t just be the awkwardness of having to confront the memory of her drunken karaoke escapades; the pain of _that_ particular memory had dulled after, as Mercedes had predicted, the school week happened, and everyone moved on. But then, why?

She gazed out over the soccer field. “Maybe I wanted to pretend, just for a little while, that I could.”

“Pretend what?” Felix asked sharply. He had a strange expression on his face. “That you can sing?”

Annette shook her head. “No, not that. I don’t know. Be in a band, I guess. It’s stupid, really.”

She fully expected him to agree with her, since she had, almost without realizing, aligned Felix with her internal, often adversarial, monologue. Her internal monologue was berating her for how _stupid_ she was, and so, she decided, was Felix. But Felix surprised her. “It’s not stupid. I get it. You didn’t audition, and we cornered you at a party like jackasses.”

“Oh,” said Annette, who’d been expecting a little more pushback. “So that’s it? We’re okay? You’re not mad?”

Felix made a frustrated sound. “Is that what you think of me? _Jesus_ , Annette, what kind of person would I be if I was a dick to you for not joining my _band_?”

“I don’t know!” cried Annette. “I don’t have a lot of experience with bands, or auditions, or _any of this_. And then Dorothea said you were thinking about canceling callbacks, so I thought you were serious about this whole thing — ”

Felix muttered something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like _“Fucking Dorothea.”_

“— and I just didn’t want to let anyone down.” 

“Annette,” said Felix, forcefully. “I said it’s fine. I don’t know _what_ Dorothea told you, but we weren’t thinking of doing _anything_ differently. So just… _calm down_.”

Annette had never heard Felix talk so much, or with so much emotion. He seemed genuinely agitated by the idea that she’d worried about disappointing him, which was odd considering how little they’d spoken to each other before this afternoon. Had there been something else at the party - something she was still forgetting? Or a conversation they’d had before, something that hadn’t mattered at the time, something she’d forgotten and he hadn’t?

“I’m sorry,” she said again, trying to cover her bases in case any of these options were true.

“So you’ve said,” said Felix, but he didn’t sound angry; just tired. “You know you’re apologizing _for_ apologizing, right?” 

“I mean it,” Annette said, suppressing the instinct to apologize again. “I saw Dimitri in the cafeteria yesterday and he looked _horrible._ Like he hadn’t slept in _months._ ” She’d almost blurted out, _“Dimitri, I’m sorry, but I can’t join your band,”_ but had managed not to at the last moment, because Dimitri had just looked so pitiful and exhausted that Annette felt guilty even _thinking about_ delivering bad news.

“Yeah, well,” said Felix. “Dimitri’s… he’s.” He sighed. “Dimitri's tired.” It was obvious from the way he said this that “tired” meant a lot of things besides “typical high school sleep deprivation.” Annette, curiosity piqued, wanted to ask, but she said nothing. “He needs this band. No singer, no band. That’s not your fault.”

They sat in silence, watching as the wind blew through the trees. There were so many things that Annette wanted to ask; so much on her mind that she struggled to put the hundreds of questions racing through it into words. She settled for: “What about you?”

“What _about_ me?” Felix repeated.

Annette studied him. “Do you need the band?”

She hadn’t realized how close she’d gotten to Felix until he stood, and her face was suddenly inches from his chest. “I guess you’ll never know, Have a nice weekend, Annette.”

“You too— ” she started to say, but he was already gone. As she watched him leave, Annette felt strangely like she’d failed a test that she hadn’t even known she was taking. Like he’d memorized his half of the script, while she’d never even learned her lines. Yet again, she found herself returning to the age-old question: what was Felix’s _deal_?

But she’d cross that bridge once she'd secured a ride home. Pulling out her cell phone, she dialed Mercedes’s number and listened to it ring.

_____

“Wait. I’m confused,” said Mercedes later that night, as they were curled up on Annette’s couch watching _Pretty in Pink_. “Did you say ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

“No,” said Annette through a mouthful of popcorn. “ _Eventually_.”

“Aww, that’s a shame. I was looking forward to being a groupie.”

Annette turned her face away from the TV, where Duckie was arguing with Andie, to squint at Mercedes. “You think I should’ve said yes instead?”

“Maybe,” Mercedes shrugged. “I mean, if you said no, you probably have your reasons, but you’re a great singer, and it sounded like fun.” She reached for the popcorn bowl, which was balancing precariously between the two of them, and took a handful. “They seem nice.”

“ _Nice_?” 

“Yeah, nice. I don’t really _know-them_ know-them, but they come into Fergus’s a lot.” Mercedes was a little over a year older than Sylvain, who’d turned eighteen over the summer, but because of an early birthday and a quirk of the way Garegg Mach divided students into class years, she’d been two years ahead of him and Felix in school. The idea that she knew the band mostly from their favorite after-school hangout made sense.”They’re loud, but they aren’t messy or anything. Also, they always tip _really_ well. Not just twenty or thirty percent. Sometimes fifty or sixty.”

“ _Nice_ ,” repeated Annette, astounded. She stole the popcorn bowl from Mercedes, who made a small sound of protest. “That’s… not the word I’d use.”

“Oh?” asked Mercedes. “What word _would_ you use?”

“Scary,” said Annette almost immediately, passing the popcorn bowl back to Mercedes. “Which, they shouldn’t be, because they’re just _people,_ but they are.”

Mercedes made a humming sound in the back of her throat. “Are they?”

“Are they what?”

“I don’t know,” Mercedes looked thoughtful. _Pretty and Pink_ was still playing on Annette’s living room TV, but neither of them was really watching anymore. “Maybe it’s not really them you’re scared of. Maybe you made up this idea about what they think of you and _that’s_ the really scary thing.”

She had a point. They chewed their popcorn in silence before Annette sighed. “You have the answers to _everything._ I wish you were still in high school.” 

Mercedes laughed. “I don’t,” she said. “Even the longest, most exhausting day of work is still better than calculus. Or biology. Or—”

“I can’t believe you’re forgetting gym class,” said Annette, who’d harbored a particular hatred for gym class ever since a heated game of ultimate frisbee sent her to the nurse’s office with a bloody nose. It hadn’t even been someone else’s frisbee. She’d done that to _herself_.

“That too,” agreed Mercedes, who was equally uncoordinated. “I guess it’s been so long that I forgot about that.”

“Oh, now you’re just being _mean._ ”

Mercedes finished the popcorn and set the empty bowl on the floor between their feet. “But seriously—do what feels right, okay? With the band thing. If you change your mind, that’s great, but if you still don’t feel like it, that’s okay too.”

“You mean you’ll still be my friend if I’m not a famous rock star?”

“Of course. Even if high school garage bands _did_ typically turn people into famous rock stars,” said Mercedes.

They finished _Pretty and Pink_ and Annette, who’d only needed a single Molly Ringwald comparison from a well-meaning relative when she was thirteen to make the John Hughes Cinematic Universe a central part of her personality, suggested _The Breakfast Club_ or _Sixteen Candles_ next.

“Do you wanna bake something? ! I think we still have some of that prepackaged cookie dough in the fridge,” she offered. “Or maybe we could try making those turnovers we saw on Pinterest last week, the ones with the strawberries?”

“Actually, I can’t.” Mercedes looked crestfallen in a way that only the prospect of turning down baking could inspire. “I have work tomorrow morning, so I should really get going.”

“Ugh, really? They’re scheduling you on Saturdays now?” Annette complained. “What about Friday night movie night? That’s our _thing._ ”

“It came up really fast, and I think it’s just a one-time deal,” said Mercedes quickly. “We can bake next week, okay? Turnovers, chocolate chip cookies, _anything_.”

“Okay, okay,” Annette grumbled, and then, not wanting their night to end on a sour note, added, “Love you. Drive home safe.”

But that night, lying in bed, Annette felt like something had been _off_ about their conversation. Mercedes had been working at Fergus’s for years and she never, _ever_ worked Saturday mornings. Plus, there was the way her voice stiffened, so imperceptibly that Annette almost hadn’t noticed, when she’d mentioned “work.” She’d looked away from Annette, but before she had, Annette had caught a glimpse of the look on her face, and…. 

Well, if she didn’t know any better, she’d think Mercedes was lying about something. 

_____

Monday morning came at last, and, with it, a smattering of flyers reading “BOAR PRINCE CALLBACKS MON @ 4PM.”

Some were hanging in the hallways, suspended from the concrete with blue strips of painters’ tape or attached to bulletin boards with thumbtacks. Others replaced the original advertisements, some of which were still peeking out from beneath the new posters. There weren’t as many as before, but that made sense, because callbacks were, by definition, all about calling the people you’d already seen _back._ You didn’t need to advertise as heavily the second time around.

On her way to choir, Annette spotted Dimitri hanging one of the flyers by the band room. She bolted for the closest girls’ bathroom, her heart racing, and only came out after the warning bell rang and her fear of being late became more important to her than the possibility of accidental eye contact with someone who (she still wasn’t sure) might not even know the full story of her almost-involvement with his band.

Felix had been vague about the details. “Dimitri’s tired,” he’d said, but that could apply to a whole list of things. Still, Annette didn’t want to gamble on the odds that Felix and Sylvain still hadn’t told their close friend and bandmate, _“oh, by the way, we asked some junior to be our new lead singer without telling you or giving her a real audition, but it’s okay because she turned us down, so no harm, no foul, right?”_

Annette had made her choice, and she wasn’t someone who liked wavering in her decisions - out of necessity, not personal preference, because questioning one decision was an absolute slippery slope of panic, one of which had culminated in an existential crisis and a midnight trip to the pharmacy to buy blonde hair dye out of some insane desire to go platinum. 

Honestly, whenever she had the option, Annette found it treacherously easy to dissect every decision she’d ever made and imagine how it could’ve all gone so differently. It was just easier to pack her choices into boxes, shove those boxes in the back of a coat closet, and never open them again.

In the end, it was probably better for everyone if she didn’t lose herself in imagining _what if._

She found herself wishing, yet again, that Mercedes was sitting next to her in her classes. Mercedes would understand the pit of anxiety settling in her stomach, even if Annette couldn’t put her reasoning into _thoughts_ , let alone words. Mercedes had been the first person to react to the news of Annette’s party misadventures with sympathy. She’d also been the first to take the idea of “Annette the Lead Singer” seriously. Unlike her classmates or even most of her friends, Mercedes hadn’t laughed. She’d been the first and only one.

At least, the only one until Felix, but Annette didn’t want to think about that.

As the final bell rang, Annette found herself lingering by Annex B instead of the courtyard, where she’d intended on killing time before after school choir rehearsal. Maybe it came from of a morbid sense of curiosity (she even started to wonder who they’d find to replace her, before realizing that, as she’d never _actually_ been a member of Boar Prince to begin with, it wasn’t fair to call whoever became their new lead singer her “replacement.”)

Callbacks hadn’t started yet, but the four members of the band were lounging aimlessly outside of the Annex. Ingrid was complaining about some “chauvinist pig” from her English class who’d responded to her complaints about the lack of women on the syllabus with “there aren’t any good women writers.” 

“Oh man,” Sylvain was laughing. “I wish I’d been there to see _that._ Did you castrate him or just settle for making him cry?”

“Why not both?” said Ingrid, and Sylvain cheered. 

“That’s my girl!”

They were so familiar with each other that they anticipated each other’s jokes long before anyone managed the setup, let alone the punchline. Annette hadn’t realized she was staring until Dimitri happened to look up, see her sitting alone by the far wall, and say, “Uh, we’ve got company,” which broke the spell.

The group turned to look at her: Ingrid, arms crossed defensively over her chest; Sylvain, who looked both surprised and pleased that she’d shown up; Dimitri, who seemed unsure why she was at callbacks after she’d turned down their initial offer; Felix, who studied her with an expression that seemed to communicate: _Well? You said no. What are you doing here now?_

Felix’s eyes were brown, which felt like new information, even though Annette realized distantly that she must’ve already known this. 

A chorus of voices echoed in her mind: _The one time you do something spontaneous,_ Linhardt said. _It’s a classic. I’m glad you recognize it,_ said Ferdinand. _You’re not joining the band, are you?_ asked Dorothea. _Do what feels right, okay?_ Mercedes comforted. _Pretend what? Pretend you can sing?_ asked Felix, in a way that Annette finally understood, or at least hoped, meant _You weren’t pretending._

It wasn’t life or death. It was a band; a shitty high school garage band; a band she’d never even heard _play_ before (so who even knew if they had any talent, or if their taste in music was anywhere _close_ to hers.) It all felt so completely _stupid_ to even spend so much time deliberating about something so small, when somewhere out there, there were things that _mattered._ If deciding whether or not to join a _band_ in _high school_ was the most important decision she had to make this week, she was so unspeakably lucky.

“Hi,” said Annette in a small voice. “You guys have callbacks today, right? Has anyone shown up yet?”

“Not yet,” Dimitri said. “But it’s not four yet, and we’re still waiting for a janitor to come unlock the room for us, anyway.”

“They lock the Annex during school hours?” This was news to Annette. “Why?”

Dimitri shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe because it’s pretty far from classrooms, so people might use it to ditch or something? I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Ah,” said Annette, who wasn’t sure how else to respond. From the looks that the rest of the band was giving her over Dimitri’s shoulder, it was clear they weren’t sure what she was still doing there. The spectrum ran from mildly curious (Sylvain) to slightly irritated (Ingrid) with Felix somewhere in-between, at what could only be described as a series of question marks.

“So, did you, uh, need something?” Dimitri asked after a _very_ long and awkward pause. “Because you’re more than welcome to hang out here until callbacks start, but if there’s something specific, we should probably—”

“Actually, I—” Annette started to say, before her thoughts became very quiet.

The sea of voices that had been echoing in her mind only moments before — chastising her, mocking her, comforting her, saying nothing at all — were gone. The only sounds were the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway and her own heartbeat, which thudded a steady rhythm in her chest.

 _Did_ she need something? She could say no. She could turn around and leave, no questions asked, and no one but her would ever know that she’d reconsidered. They’d hold callbacks like they’d planned, and they’d find some nasally senior who listened to Kate Bush and thought she could perform “Wuthering Heights” and couldn’t, or some overconfident junior who thought Fleetwood Mac was the height of underground taste. And Annette would go back to the choir room with her folder of music and her color-coded highlighters and vision board full of cities she’d never visited and probably never would, because Annette Dominic was a good girl who did what people expected. She was nice, and safe, and predictable.

 _Fuck_ predictable. 

“I changed my mind,” she said before she could lose her nerve. “I want to join your band. Like, a lot. A _lot_ a lot.”

Judging by how swiftly their expressions changed, _no one_ had been expecting this answer. She might as well have reached into her backpack and pulled out a live cobra. Actually, considering the look of pure bewilderment on Dimitri’s face, even _that_ might’ve managed to be less surprising.

“What?” said Dimitri, at the same time Ingrid asked, “ _Excuse_ me?”

Annette kept going. “I know this is kind of bad timing, since you’re all here for callbacks and all, but I just thought a lot about it over the weekend and I think I was a little hasty. And I really like singing, and you need a singer, so I just thought I’d… offer?” Her voice pitched on the last syllable, as her initial burst of courage suddenly dwindled into nothing. “If you’ll, um, still have me.”

It occurred to her, as they all stood there in silence, that she was asking a lot of them. She wasn’t just asking for a second chance— she was asking for a second chance when she hadn’t even gone through the right channels for her _first_ . The air in the hallway outside of the annex suddenly felt heavy and overbearing as she waited for someone, _anyone,_ to say something.

Dimitri broke the silence. “Oh, thank _God,_ ” he blurted out. “You’ve just made our lives _so_ much easier.”

Ingrid whirled on him, eyes blazing with indignation. “Hey, hang on a second,” she said, sounding so irritated that Annette suspected this wasn’t about _her,_ really _._ “Didn’t we agree we vote on stuff like this?”

Sylvain rolled his eyes. “Ingrid, this isn’t a democracy. It’s a _Dim_ -ocracy. If our benevolent dictator says we have a new singer, we have a new singer. Get with the program.”

Which - okay, that wasn’t _exactly_ the enthusiastic welcome Annette had been hoping for, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

Dimitri shook his head. “No, no, she’s right,” he said. “We vote on this stuff. That’s how we do things, and it’s only fair we all vote together since this is something that’ll affect all of us.” He turned to Annette. “Do you — you can go somewhere else for this if you want.”

“Oh, no, it’s — I’m fine here,” said Annette, whose worst nightmare was a room full of people talking about her behind her back.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. All in favor of Annette joining Boar Prince?”

“ _Hell_ yeah,” crowed Sylvain.

“I’m in,” said Felix simply.

Ingrid was silent. The group stared at her. She bit her lower lip, thinking for a moment, before she let out an exasperated huff. “ _Fine_. Sure. Whatever. Since everybody else agrees.”

“And I’m obviously a yes, which makes it unanimous,” finished Dimitri. “So, congrats! Welcome to the band.”

“Oh. Okay,” Annette said, her voice slightly breathless (it was at this point that her heart rate, as if making up for lost time, started to accelerate in her chest). “Cool. Awesome.” She realized that she was speaking in one-word sentences, but the adrenaline racing through her veins was making concrete thought slightly difficult at the moment.

Dimitri gave her a strange look. Annette wondered once again if he remembered her from middle school, or if he was simply struggling to process the amount of stupid, nervous energy in one small hallway.

“Cool,” he said, and then, “so are you —”

It was at this exact moment that Annette found herself distantly thinking: _Don’t I have somewhere to be right now?_ This thought was followed up almost immediately with the startled realization: _Shitshitshit I DO._

“Oh, God, actually, I’m so sorry but I’m _really_ late for something so I’m just —” 

She’d made it a few steps down the hallway before Sylvain called her back.

“Hey! Wait, Annette! Do you even know when we rehearse? Or where? Or—”

Annette spun around. Sylvain, reading her expression and realizing that, because Annette’s thoughts were consumed by a steady refrain of _LATELATELATE_ , she wouldn't absorb a single thing he said, waved her off.

“You know what? I’ll just text you.”

As Annette turned, she heard him say to the others, “Alright, fuck-os, guess it’s time to break it to the others that callbacks are canceled and they’re still garage band bridesmaids.”

“Fuck-os?” Felix asked with disdain. “Thank God we don't have to vote on a new name today too.”

“I'd pick Garage Band Bridesmaids instead,” mused Dimitri. “It has stronger merchandise potential.”

_____

Outside of the choir room, where rehearsal was already starting, Annette was overcome with a sudden burst of excitement. Checking over her shoulder first to make sure she was alone in the hallway, she set her backpack on the ground.

“ _Yesyesyeysyesyes_ ,” she whispered furiously, clenching her fists and flailing in quiet, barely contained joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Much love xx


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What about ‘White Rabbit’?” Annette chimed in. “The song from the sixties. You know, the ‘one pill makes you larger’ one. It has a nice, um, bass - thing?” She was looking at Felix as she said this, her expression cautiously optimistic, and he found himself remembering what she’d said to him on the bleachers: I wanted to pretend, just for a little while, that I could. 
> 
> “Bassline,” he corrected, but then he softened. “Yeah, you’re right. It does.”
> 
> Sylvain stared at him. “So I get ‘dumbass’ but she gets,” He put on a high-pitched voice. “‘Yeah, you’re right. It does’?”

When Felix showed up at Dimitri’s for the first unofficial practice of the newly five-member Boar Prince, he finally understood the gravity of his mistake. It was one thing to talk to Annette about the band, or to the band about Annette; it was something  _ very  _ different to stomp down the stairs into the basement and find Annette perched on a recliner talking to Dimitri and realize with a growing sense of horror that Annette singing in his band meant  _ Annette singing in his band.  _

Because the last time Felix had heard Annette sing, her voice had -  _ done things _ to him, which sounded sexual but wasn’t (he wished it was, only because that would’ve been easier to explain). No, Annette’s voice was more than that - it was ecstatic, almost divine. He’d tried to understand  _ (God knows he’d tried) _ but every time he thought about the night of Claude’s party, Annette’s fingers wrapped around the microphone, and how easily nothing else in the world mattered once she’d started to sing —

Hell, even thinking about  _ thinking about  _ it, Felix felt himself short-circuit. He tried to convince himself that Claude’s party had been a fluke, and there was no reason to suspect he wouldn’t act like a normal fucking human being, but even his own thoughts sounded unconvincing, which was absolutely  _ pathetic _ .

Annette and Dimitri hadn’t noticed him come in. (Thank God for small mercies.)

“Oh my God, wait,” Annette was saying, “Do you remember when we were both in middle school band and they had you playing those really big drums one time?”

“Timpanis” Dimitri supplied sheepishly. “Which I hated, because I played the xylophone, but someone got the flu the night of the winter concert, so I didn’t have a choice.”

“Which still seems weird,” Annette said. “Because the amount of force you need for a xylophone versus a timpani is _so_ skewed. I mean, I played the flute but even _I_ knew that.”

“You couldn’t have warned me?” Dimitri asked. “Before the whole, you know—”

“You mean—” Annette laughed again. “When you had your big solo moment but you brought down the drumstick too hard and—” She paused, breathless with laughter. “It— it just went—you were too strong and it just— tore through the top?”

“They made me pay for replacement drums,” Dimitri admitted, which was enough to send Annette into hysterics.

Felix remembered distantly that Annette and Dimitri had been friends once, back when Dimitri and his dad still lived past the bridge and Rodrigue complained good-naturedly about how long it took to carpool everyone from the North side of town (where Ingrid, Felix, and Sylvain lived) to the South. At some point before high school, Dimitri moved to a larger house in a closer subdivision, and Felix stopped seeing Annette quite so much, which at the time hadn’t seemed related because he was fourteen and a shithead and hadn’t been paying attention.

At any rate, Dimitri seemed glad to have Annette back. That was all that mattered, wasn’t it?

Overheard, Dimitri’s front door shut, and two sets of footsteps thudded down the hallway — Sylvain and Ingrid, who carpooled fairly often because Ingrid drove a notoriously bad-tempered 1992 Jeep Wrangler, complete with a stick shift. Felix lived closer to Ingrid’s than Sylvain did, so logic dictated he should’ve been her ride to Dimitri’s, but after the first time Ingrid had asked for a ride and Felix responded with a crack about women drivers, Ingrid never asked again, which was fine by Felix. 

(He was still recovering from the shrill lecture she’d given him about  _ sexist jokes  _ and  _ respecting women _ , a lecture that had only gotten worse when Felix remembered the hot pink “Respect Women Juice” mug Sylvain had wound up with in some gag gift exchange, at which point Felix had been too distracted to focus and Ingrid had launched into a new speech about  _ men not listening _ .)

The sound of new arrivals jolted Dimitri and Annette out of their laughter, and they finally noticed Felix lingering in the doorway. 

“Oh, good, you’re here!” Annette reached for a cardboard box on the floor between her feet. “I brought donuts for everyone, and they’re still warm, but they won’t be for long. I was telling Dimitri, I wanted to bake something, but our oven’s on the fritz, so donuts it was. Let’s see, there’s glazed, chocolate-frosted, apple cinnamon…” 

“I don’t like sweets.” Felix interrupted.

“Oh.” Annette’s face fell. Felix wished he could take back the callous response that had slipped out on autopilot, but a moment later, she only shrugged, good humor restored. “More for us, then.”

“More of  _ what  _ for us?” asked Sylvain, appearing around the corner with Ingrid. Spotting the half-dozen donuts on Annette’s lap, his eyes widened. “Are those  _ donuts _ ?”

Annette beamed at him. “There’s five, so one for each of us, but if Felix isn’t having his, someone else can take the extra.”

“ _ Five _ ?” Ingrid looked at the box suspiciously. “What happened to the last one?”

Annette flushed. “I, ah, might’ve eaten one of them on the way over.”

Ingrid stared at the donuts warily, as if she expected them to burst into flame. She was taking a very long time to deliberate over a  _ donut,  _ thought Felix.

Sylvain cleared his throat. “Jeez, don’t everybody talk at once. What flavors you got there, Annette?”

As Annette cheerily rattled off the same list of flavors that she’d offered Felix moments earlier, plus the remaining ones that she hadn’t gotten to, Felix sank into the futon. He hadn’t brought his bass — this was an “organizational meeting,” not a full practice, because Dimitri loved bureaucracy and meetings that could’ve just been group texts — but he wished he had, only because it would’ve given him something to do with his hands while Sylvain and Annette discussed the intricacies of corn syrup and red dye #3 and Ingrid continued to stare at the donuts and not say anything. 

“Ingrid?” Annette asked, offering the box once Dimitri and Sylvain had made their choices (plain glazed and strawberry frosted with sprinkles, respectively.)

Ingrid hesitated, before something in her posture seemed to unbend, and she took a chocolate-frosted from the box, leaving Annette with an apple cinnamon and a cream-filled. She sat down next to Felix on the futon and, looking more disgruntled than he’d ever seen someone look with a donut in their hand, took a bite.

Which was progress, but considering he’d once seen Ingrid devour an entire cheese pizza in less than ten minutes, he wasn’t convinced the gesture represented anything other than a stalemate.

Dimitri cleared his throat. “So, now that we can officially start thinking about invitationals— Any ideas?”

“Ideas?” asked Annette, taking a bite of the apple-cinnamon donut. “Ideas for what?”

Ingrid chewed her donut furiously, or as furiously as anyone  _ could  _ chew a donut, leaving Sylvain to answer Annette. “Invitationals. We need a setlist. Dorothea didn’t tell you?”

“No,” admitted Annette, at the same time that both Felix and Ingrid (through a mouthful of donut) asked, “You know Dorothea?”

Until that moment, Felix had assumed he and Sylvain, the two seniors in the band, were the only two who knew Dorothea well enough to be surprised when the three of them had non-mutual friends. Annette made sense, given how often vocalists tended to flock together, but Ingrid was a little surprising.

Then again, Dorothea  _ had  _ dated Sylvain, which meant that none of them had really had a choice whether or not they knew Dorothea at that point.

“Yeah,” Annette shrugged. “She’s in choir with me, Ferdinand, Lorenz…”

Sylvain nearly choked on his donut. “Mr. Memory’s there too?”

“What?” said Annette, who obviously hadn’t been there for the disastrous first day of auditions.

“Why would Dorothea tell Annette about invitationals?” Ingrid asked, finishing the donut and reaching for the extra that would’ve been Felix’s. Annette gave her a tentative smile, which Ingrid didn’t return. Annette’s smile vanished.

“She told Annette about callbacks, didn’t she?” Sylvain offered. “She’s basically our unofficial PR at this point.”

“Technically, that was Ferdinand,” Annette said. “Which, I’m still not sure how he even  _ knew  _ about that—”

“Easy,” Sylvain interrupted. “I told him.”

Annette whirled on him. “You know Ferdinand?”

Felix threw up his hands. “So what I’m getting is: we all know people. We’re at a school of a thousand people, and we have a few of them in common. This is radical stuff, guys.”

Annette either missed the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. “How do you know Ferdinand?”

“Had to,” said Sylvain. “We keep getting confused with each other. You only get called someone else’s name so many times before you have to meet the guy and see for yourself. We look nothing alike, but people see red hair, and it’s like all critical thinking goes out the window.”

“Clearly,” muttered Ingrid darkly. Felix had a feeling she wasn’t talking about Ferdinand and Sylvain.

Annette looked down at her feet, which were bare except for a pair of blue-and-white striped socks. Her cheeks were flushed.

Dimitri coughed. “So. Setlist,” he said. “I’m still taking suggestions. Anyone remember what we did last year?”

“‘The Offspring for the first one,” said Sylvain. “Then Blur for the last one, but I don’t remember the middle one.”

“Weird Fishes,” Felix supplied, and Sylvain snapped both hands into finger-guns.

“That’s the ticket. Radiohead - I totally called it. Hey, Ingrid, wasn’t I just saying on the ride over that I thought we did Radiohead last year?”

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “You didn’t call  _ shit _ .”

“So, it’s a three-song set?” Annette asked, lifting up her head. “Any three songs, or—”

Dimitri started to shake his head, then paused, grimacing. “Yes. No. It’s complicated. They can be covers of anything, but one of them is usually acoustic, or at least a slower tempo— it doesn’t have to be, but in practice, you usually have at least one.”

“Something to show you can actually play  _ music  _ and not just make noise is  _ generally  _ the idea,” Sylvain added.

Felix scowled. “Not that that’s ever stopped you.”

Sylvain looked at him very solemnly. “You’re lucky you’re on the futon and I’m all the way over here and  _ very  _ comfortable where I am.”

“All the way over there? You’re barely five feet from me.”

“Can we go back to talking about brainstorming a setlist? The thing we  _ actually _ came here to do?” Dimitri asked.

“We could do something by The Cranberries?” Annette offered. “My mom really likes them.”

“Mom-rock isn’t really our genre,” said Ingrid testily. 

“Oy, are The Cranberries ‘mom-rock’ now? How fast they grow up,” said Sylvain. “But we can’t, anyway. One of the judges has a vendetta.”

“Against  _ The Cranberries?”  _

“Just covers,” clarified Dimitri. “Invitationals are close to Halloween, so there’s always a lot of Halloween-themed setlists. One year, that meant a lot of ‘Zombie’s. One of the bands used actual zombie face makeup from the Halloween store. One thing led to another, and now the entire band’s banned from the competition.”

Annette was aghast. “But the song’s not  _ literally  _ about zombies. Did no one just….  _ Google  _ before committing to the bit?”

“Absolutely not.”

“So, setlist—” Felix prompted.

Dimitri chewed on his lower lip, deep in thought. Felix could practically see the list of bands running through his mind as he deliberated. “There’s always Paramore. I know we vetoed them last year, but that was mostly because of Glenn, right?”

“I can’t remember,” said Ingrid. “Did he veto it himself or did we do it for him?” A small smile teased at the corners of her lips. “Because, God, can you even imagine Glenn doing his best Hayley Williams on ‘Ain’t It Fun’ or, even worse,  _ ‘Decode’ _ ?”

Annette, who only vaguely knew “Glenn” from what they’d told her —  _ Felix’s older brother; our old lead singer; he lives in New York now _ — was looking back and forth between Dimitri and Ingrid, apparently trying to stitch together this new information with what she’d already learned. From the expression on her face, it seemed like she wasn’t having much luck.

“Decode!” Sylvain said suddenly, causing everyone to jump. “There’s an idea.” He turned to Annette, who looked grateful that the conversation had returned to a familiar topic. “If that’s in your vocal register, it’s perfect.”

“Vocal register? That’s not a guitar term,” said Annette. “I’m surprised you know that.”

Sylvain waved a hand dismissively. “You date Dorothea, you pick up a few things by osmosis. So, is it?”

Annette mulled it over. “Probably,” she said, and then more decisively, “No, I’m pretty sure it is. But, um, I’m okay with whatever songs you guys pick, since I’m new and all, so if anyone wants to suggest something else—” 

“Decode’s fine,” Dimitri said. “You’re the only one of us without an instrument. It just makes sense to go with what you can sing.”

“Oh.” Annette looked embarrassed. Felix wanted to strangle Dimitri for somehow managing to make the already tense atmosphere even  _ worse _ . Ingrid, whose expression had darkened from ‘mild annoyance’ to ‘DEFCON-1 incoming,’ opened her mouth to say something, but Sylvain beat her to it.

“Nah, not like that. Your voice is an instrument, same as ours.” He winked. “Only difference is: yours comes with a built-in range and ours are a little easier to switch up. You can’t add a capo to your vocal cords, right?”

“Exactly,” Dimitri looked relieved. “That’s exactly what I meant. So, as I was saying, we do ‘Decode’ for the first one, then—”

“We do Wolf Alice,” Felix interrupted. “‘Moaning Lisa Smile.’” Four startled faces turned to look at him. It occurred to him that he’d been unusually quiet up until that moment, which wasn’t to say that Felix under normal circumstances was particularly chatty, but even he managed more than a few sarcastic sentences. 

“I don’t know, Fe,” Sylvain grimaced. “You know I want to, but that one’s total  _ murder  _ for your vocal cords. Are you sure we—”

“I can do it.”

Felix glanced at Annette to find her staring intently at Sylvain. Her mouth was set in a determined line that felt more appropriate for the battlefield than a basement. “Seriously. I can do it,” she repeated. “I’ll mark in rehearsals if I have to, but I can do it. I want to.”

“You’re sure,” Dimitri said, in a voice that communicated  _ he  _ wasn’t. “Because we still have a month, but we should really lock in our set—”

_ “Jesus _ , she said she’s sure,” snapped Ingrid. “Don’t talk her out of it. We still need to pick another song after this.”

Dimitri shrugged. “I’m just being cautious,” he said, which was both true in the moment and an accurate summary of his entire personality. He cleared his throat. “So, last one it is. We still don’t have an acoustic.”

“Is this the year we finally sell out and do Fall Out Boy?” Sylvain asked. “Disloyal Order of the Water Buffaloes, anyone?”

“Sell out usually implies they’re paying you, dumbass,” Felix said.

“Plus, we’d have to transpose keys for Annette,” Dimitri added, “which I could do, but it’d be a lot of work and not a lot of reward for invitationals.”

“So that’s a no, then,” Sylvain sighed. “Once again, fate spits on my dreams.”

“What about ‘White Rabbit’?” Annette chimed in. “The song from the sixties. You know, the ‘one pill makes you larger’ one. It has a nice, um, bass - thing?” She was looking at Felix as she said this, her expression cautiously optimistic, and he found himself remembering what she’d said to him on the bleachers _ : I wanted to pretend, just for a little while, that I could.  _

“Bassline,” he corrected, but then he softened. “Yeah, you’re right. It does.”

Sylvain stared at him. “So I get ‘dumbass’ but she gets,” He put on a high-pitched voice. “‘Yeah, you’re right. It does’?”

“I don’t sound like that,” Felix argued. “Jesus, that was a  _ terrible  _ impersonation.”

“White Rabbit would work,” Dimitri interrupted. “If ‘Weird Fishes’ counted as an acoustic, then ‘White Rabbit’ sure as hell does. There’s no keys part, so I’ll take rhythm guitar instead.”

“You play guitar too?” Annette’s eyes widened. “That’s really impressive.”

“Dimitri’s a man of many talents,” said Sylvain, causing Dimitri to stammer modestly about  _ practicing  _ and  _ lots of free time. _

“So, what, those are our three then?” Ingrid asked. She didn’t look angry anymore, which was a relief, but she did have one leg crossed over the other and was bouncing her knee up and down nervously. “The three we’re doing for invitationals?”

“Unless anyone has any other ideas—” Dimitri began, but Ingrid only shook her head.

“None from me.”

Felix watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was frowning at nothing in particular and didn’t say anything for a long, long time.

_____

Annette left earlier than the rest of them — she’d told her ride to pick her up at 3:30, and stammered nervously when Sylvain suggested asking for more time — and Dimitri followed her up the stairs out of some kind of obligation to be a good host. This turned out to be a mistake, because Annette’s ride ended up being her mom, and Dimitri charmed parents like no one else could. He’d been gone for twenty minutes, leaving Sylvain, Felix, and Ingrid alone in his basement to fester in uncomfortable silence.

“Hey, so,” Felix turned to Ingrid, his voice sharp and pointed. “What the  _ fuck  _ was that?”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Felix enunciated. “You know what I’m talking about. You agreed she could join, but the second she shows up, you turn into a raging psycho  _ bitch.  _ What’s your  _ problem? _ ”

Ingrid worked her jaw and said nothing. Felix realized he should’ve done this once Sylvain left too, but Sylvain was Ingrid’s ride, meaning that wasn’t really a feasible option. 

Sylvain, meanwhile, had pulled out his phone and was pretending to check his messages, but he was scrolling through them so quickly that he was either an Olympic-level speed-reader or he wasn’t actually reading any of them.

“My  _ problem? _ ” Ingrid started, just as Felix was saying,

“God, Ingrid, you’re acting like such a — “

“A  _ what?”  _ Her voice was shrill. “Such a  _ what _ ? Felix, I swear to God, if you say ‘such a girl’ —” 

Sylvain coughed. “I’m just gonna —” He started, but Felix, whose Pavlovian response was to ignore Sylvain when Sylvain was doing something intentionally distracting, wasn’t listening.

“Are you still pissed we didn’t vote the right way?” he asked. “Because, Christ, I know Dimitri has a hard-on for bureaucracy, but I thought you cared more about things that actually matter.”

“Things that  _ matter?”  _ Ingrid laughed bitterly. “Oh, what, like treating New Girl like a shiny new toy? Is  _ that _ something that matters?”

They were getting somewhere, but Felix felt like he was still missing something. This entire conversation felt surreal _._ “Is that what you’re pissed about? That I—”

"God, Felix!" Ingrid snapped. "For once in your stupid life, not everything is about you!”

They were both standing now, breathing heavily. Felix swallowed, searching for some kind of clever comeback and only managing “No, _that’s_ _you,”_ which would’ve been a great one if this was an elementary school playground and he was _five._

“Explain it to me, then, ” he said at last. “Because all I know is, you’ve been acting like a bitch all day, and it’s fucking with the band, so if you have a  _ problem  _ with something —”

“A problem,” Ingrid repeated in a hollow voice. “Because  _ I’m  _ the problem.”

“Ingrid —” Sylvain began, but she shook her head and said quietly:

“Don’t.”

Upstairs, Dimitri’s front door opened. A car — Annette’s mom’s, presumably — drove away, reminding Felix that Annette had been meters away the entire time he and Ingrid had been having their stupid argument. 

For some reason, this sobered him enough to bite down his next sarcastic retort, but it was too late, and he watched mutely as Ingrid grabbed her cotton Garegg Mach Girls Soccer tote bag and stormed up the basement stairs.

She passed Dimitri on her way out, and Felix heard him say, surprised, “Oh, Ingrid, you’re leaving already?” Ingrid either didn’t have anything to say, or, more likely, she was too far away for Felix to make out her response. He heard her thundering footsteps echo down the hallway before the front door slammed with a  _ thud  _ that shook the house.

When Dimitri rounded the corner of the basement stairs, his eyes were wide. “What was that all about?”

Felix ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I have no  _ fucking _ clue.”

Dimitri looked like he wanted Felix to elaborate, but he hesitated, his impulse to play peacemaker for his friends apparently at war with his impulse to avoid the receiving end of Felix’s wrath. In the end, self-preservation won out, and he sank into the recliner without asking any further questions.

Sylvain sighed. “Well, this has been fun, but I’m her ride, so I guess that’s my cue.” He stood and slipped his phone into his back pocket. “Should probably get going before she has to come remind me and I get an earful on the drive home about ‘ruining the moment.’ Same time next week?”

Felix gave Sylvain a look.

“What, her?” Sylvain shook his head. “Nah, that’s nothing.”

“That was  _ nothing _ ?”

“Well, maybe not  _ nothing, _ ” Sylvain amended. “But can you blame a guy for trying?” He grabbed his car keys and twirled them around his fingers. “See you Monday.”

“See you,” Dimitri echoed as Sylvain left.

_ And then there were two,  _ thought Felix.

“So, do you want to t—” Dimitri began, and that was enough for Felix to suddenly, magically, find reasons (excuses) for leaving, driving home, going  _ anywhere  _ that wouldn’t require him to sit in a room and talk about his  _ feelings _ . Under normal circumstances, talking about  _ feelings  _ made Felix break out in hives, but the prospect of doing just that when he didn’t even understand what he’d done, only that it was  _ wrong,  _ somehow? That went beyond hives into  _ bubonic plague  _ shit.

“I have a calc quiz,” he said, “I should study.”

“No problem,” said Dimitri, but his face fell (Felix pretended not to notice). “I have homework, anyway. So I guess I’ll see you—”

Felix was up the stairs and out the front door before Dimitri had a chance to finish his sentence.

_____

On Wednesday, contrary to Sylvain’s prediction, Ingrid still wasn’t talking to Felix.

The last time they’d gone this long without speaking — including texts — Ingrid had been at sleepaway soccer camp in the middle of rural Vermont. Sure, most of the time their conversations consisted of little more than a meme, a YouTube video, or the question “was there homework?” but it was  _ something _ . He’d take  _ something  _ over the radio silence that was growing increasingly unsettling with every passing day.

Felix was even considering just sucking it up and apologizing, even if he didn’t know what he was apologizing  _ for.  _

When he found Dorothea underneath the bleachers, sipping a cold root beer from the vending machine, she peered at him over a pair of red heart-shaped sunglasses and made the mistake of asking why he looked “unusually bitter, even for you.” 

“Petty band shit,” he offered by way of explanation.

She hummed in recognition. “She’s still mad?”

“She?” Felix started. Either Dorothea should go into the business of guessing lottery numbers, or, more likely, someone had already told her the story of what’d happened at Dimitri’s. “How’d you—”

“Sh—Sylvain told me,” Dorothea said. “But I want to hear your side of things, anyway. What happened?”

“I wish I knew,” he admitted, which was the truth, but apparently wasn’t what Dorothea wanted to hear. She frowned.

“Oh, Felix,” she sighed. “Do you really not know why she’s upset?”

Felix scowled. “What, so you think I’m just — keeping this thing going out of boredom?”

“No, stupid,” She protested. “But you’re being _ so dumb  _ right now, and  _ someone _ needs to tell you to get over yourself. Think for a second, okay?  _ Really  _ think.”

_ Really  _ think? As if he hadn’t been doing that for an entire weekend. As if he hadn’t been lying awake thinking about what exactly he could’ve said to make Ingrid so impossibly, unspeakably furious with him.

“You’re the expert. You tell me,” he said.

“Isn’t it obvious?” asked Dorothea. She laid back in the grass, her long hair fanning out behind her. “One girl in a group of boys is Wendy. Two girls in a group of boys, and the first one in becomes Tinkerbell. And no one wants to be Tinkerbell when she’s used to being Wendy.”

“Hang on,” said Felix. “Are you saying she’s jealous of  _ Annette _ ? That’s  _ insane _ . You’re  _ insane. _ ”

Dorothea looked up at him. “Can you  _ honestly _ tell me there’s nothing there? And not  _ nothing _ in an ‘ _ I’m Felix and I’m terminally unromantic’  _ way.  _ Nothing  _ nothing.”

“Nothing _,_ ” said Felix. “I can’t believe you’re still—”

“You, I understand. You’re prickly.” Dorothea interrupted. “Maybe even Dimitri and Sylvain. But Glenn?  _ Never _ ? He’s a  _ fox. _ ”

Felix gagged. “Please don’t say shit like that about my  _ brother  _ in  _ front of me. _ ”

“It’s weird, that’s all I’m saying,” said Dorothea. “Because if  _ I  _ had an excuse to talk to Glenn every week, get him alone, maybe stay after rehearsal —” 

“Again,  _ what the fuck  _ — “

“— it’d come up, that’s for sure.” She sat up, adjusting her shirt as she did, and leaned back on her elbows. “Look, Fe, there’s a  _ super  _ obvious solution to all of this. Just  _ talk to her. _ You’re being a big baby.”

“‘Just talk to her,” Felix grumbled. “Groundbreaking. Why didn’t  _ I  _ just think of that?”

Dorothea reached over to pat his knee sympathetically. “If you had, we wouldn’t be here.”

Which was a fair point, and something he probably needed to hear, but Dorothea managed to immediately squander any goodwill she’d acquired when she raised an eyebrow and asked:

“Seriously,  _ never _ ?”

Felix dragged his hands down his face. “For fuck’s sake _.” _

_____

He was still mulling over Dorothea’s insane theory when he ran into Annette in the hallway between third and fourth periods.

“Ran into” was literal. Annette, humming under her breath reading something on her phone, wasn’t paying attention. Her shoulder grazed his bicep as she passed.

“Watch it —” He started to say, before he caught sight of her face and the words died in his mouth.

A half-second later, she turned to meet his gaze. The roar of the hallway faded into a dull echo. He was aware of her mouth, forming the words to a stammered apology. He was distantly aware of his own reassurance that “ _ it’s fine.”  _

He watched her as she disappeared down the hallway into a mob of students, her body indistinguishable from a sea of identical uniforms.

_ Wendy, huh? _ He thought, before he shook his head. Dorothea didn’t know what she was talking about.

_____

The woods behind Felix’s house stretched for miles. Some days, when Rodrigue was home from Washington and the large house was too small for the both of them, Felix ran the trails. The feeling of his heart pounding in his chest and the sound of the blood roaring in his ears made the world around him seem quieter, somehow.

Rodrigue was still at work when Felix got home from school, but a gut instinct suggested he should lace up his sneakers anyway. Something told him he’d benefit from a run through the trees.

He started out at an easy jog, warming up as he went further away from the cul-de-sac of suburbia. By the time his house was hidden beyond the tree line, he was keeping a steady pace. His feet pounded on the dirt in a rhythmic cadence.  _ Thud. Thud. Thud.  _

It took Felix a long time to realize someone else was running the trails with him. He’d turned the volume up on his headphones to drown out the intermittent sounds of the wilderness, and few people knew how far the trails extended. By the time he’d noticed the flash of blond hair and the figure running alongside him, they’d been running for nearly a full mile.

Ingrid said nothing. Like Felix, she was breathing heavily, and there wasn’t much of an opportunity for her to say anything, what with the pounding of their feet on the dirt trail and the frantic pace they were setting. Aside from a few stray glances, Ingrid gave no indication that she was even aware they were running together.

Felix gritted his teeth. What was she  _ doing? Why  _ was she running the same trail he was after a  _ week  _ of ignoring him? Was she completely oblivious? Had he imagined the tension — or her silence for days on end? Was she fucking with him? Had she had some kind of change of heart — was this her insane attempt at an  _ apology?  _

Just as he was about to break the silence and ask, Ingrid turned to look at him. “Race you to the creek,” she said with a breathless smirk before she took off at a dead sprint.

It took Felix a second to react before he followed her, nearly tripping over his feet in a fruitless attempt at competing with her. His breath came in ugly gasps as he followed Ingrid, whose blond braid trailed in the wind behind her. Twigs snapped beneath their feet as they ran, nearly passing each other but not quite — Felix was fast, but Ingrid, after years of playing varsity sports, was faster. 

With a faint  _ splash,  _ her feet touched the water’s edge, and she lifted her arms over her head in victory. She turned to look at Felix, who’d slowed to a jog once she’d crossed the bank of the creek, a thin sheen of sweat beading on her forehead.

“After all these years, you still can’t beat me,” she said, breath coming in ragged gasps.

“You had the advantage,” Felix said, taking his headphones out of his ears. “You knew we were racing before I did.”

“Excuses,” Ingrid said, but a small smile had started to form on her lips. “Just let me catch my breath and I’ll give you a rematch.”

“My mark or yours?” Felix asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yours,” Ingrid breathed. She sat down on the bank of the creek, atop a large rock jutting out from the water’s edge. She held up a hand. “Only — give me a second.”

“Pussy,” Felix said. He shook his head. “You’re just afraid of losing.” 

Ingrid rolled her eyes amicably, pulling her knees to her chest as Felix found space beside her on the rock. 

The two of them sat in silence, listening to the distant cawing of birds and the muted roar of the highway. Felix’s breathing had returned to normal, as had Ingrid’s, which meant they could no longer use that excuse to explain why they weren’t speaking. But, at the same time, the silence was nice— nothing like the strained silences of the past week. This was a comfortable silence. This was a silence Felix could live with.

After a long pause, Ingrid cleared her throat. “Fe,” she said. “I’m really sorry about what happened. That was shitty of me.” She swallowed.

“Yeah,” said Felix. “That was some bullshit.”

Ingrid turned to glare at him. “Okay, asshole, this is  _ also _ the part where you say, ‘no, Ingrid, I’m sorry, too, because I was a major jerk.’”

“Really?” Felix said. “Guess I didn’t get that version of the script.”

Ingrid’s mouth set in a hard line. “I’m trying to apologize, here. The least you can do is —”

“I know,” Felix interrupted. He took a deep breath. “I’m — I’m sorry, too.”

Ingrid watched him. She didn’t look happy, exactly, but her face softened, which was progress. “Do you even know what you’re sorry for?”

_ Ah _ . Felix had hoped she’d be so delighted with the unexpected apology that she wouldn’t ask any questions. Damn, this just wasn’t his week, was it? “Not really,” he said. ‘Look, if Annette pisses you off that much, you should’ve just said something. We could’ve blacklisted her like Dorothea and found somebody else.”

Ingrid shook her head. “That’s not it.” She looked down at the rippling water of the creek. “It’s just — this thing has been  _ ours  _ for so long. We’ve been a band for  _ four years.  _ And all of a sudden Glenn’s gone, and there’s someone new, and you all just — seemed so  _ eager  _ to move on, like nothing had changed, when  _ everything  _ had and I was the only one who noticed.”

Felix blinked. “ _ That’s _ why you’re mad? Jesus, Ingrid, no one’s  _ replacing  _ Glenn.”

Strangely, this brought the smile back to her face. “You realize that’s  _ literally _ what we did, right?”

“And  _ gone?  _ He’s in New York. He’s not  _ dead. _ ”

“Semantics,” said Ingrid, still watching the water. “He’s not here, so he’s gone. Don’t read a ton of meaning into a few syllables, dumbass.” After a moment, almost hesitantly, she added: “So, we’re okay?”

Felix looked at her. “Yeah,” He said. “We’re okay.”

Ingrid relaxed. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and the two of them sat once again in comfortable silence, watching falling leaves and migrating geese and the ripples on the creek radiating out into nothingness.

_____

The following week, Claude cornered Felix in the student parking lot. “So, I’ll just assume my gift basket got lost in the mail?”

Felix rarely had the patience for Claude’s riddles, and especially not after a long day of suffering through calculus. “Gift basket?” He asked in a flat voice, fruitlessly attempting to maneuver around Claude to unlock his car.

“Eh, don’t worry about replacing it at this point.” Claude leaned on the hood of Felix’s Volvo. “A simple ‘thank you’ would be just fine.” He crossed his arms over his chest and waited expectantly. “So, let’s hear it then.”

“Hear what?” Felix scowled.

“Thank you,” repeated Claude.

_ “Thank you?”  _ Felix asked incredulously.

Claude beamed. “You’re very welcome.”

_ Christ _ , Felix didn’t have time for this. “Look,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’re blocking my car, so either you move or I move you.”

Claude’s eyes widened, and he held up his hands defensively. “Easy, tiger. We’re all friends here, right?” He shook his head. “If I say karaoke, does that ring any bells?”

Karaoke? Felix thought for a moment before he realized: Claude’s party. The karaoke machine; the one he’d assumed Claude had turned on solely to cause benevolent chaos.  _ Annette _ . Annette  _ singing. _

“You expect me to believe that was  _ planned _ ?” He asked. His pulse was racing, and desperate to deflect, he lashed out at Claude. “That we, what, were so bad at finding a replacement that you held your own fucking American Idol at a house party?”

Claude shrugged. “Think of it this way. If the band needed a new bassist, would  _ you _ sign up for afterschool auditions? Or  _ callbacks?  _ It’s no wonder you kept getting theater kids. Say the word ‘audition’ and they swarm like sharks.”

Claude had a point, but Felix didn’t want to admit that. Instead of responding, he deflected, scoffing. “So, what, I guess you planned the whole fucking party as a talent search too? Or was that just a bonus?”

“Coincidences happen,” Claude said lightly. “Karaoke was a spark of genius, I’ll admit, but—”

“That’s some coincidence,” Felix said. “That you just  _ happen _ to throw a party, that just  _ happens  _ to have a karaoke machine—” 

Claude stared up at him lazily, with the self-satisfied smile of a cat watching its prey. “Maybe I just like parties, Felix. Hey, it worked out, didn’t it? Why not just thank me and leave it at that?”

_ Because you brought it up, dickhead,  _ Felix thought. Claude was infuriatingly difficult to get a read on— one moment he was halfway admitting to orchestrating karaoke to find them a new singer; the next he was playing coy about the entire thing. There was no way in  _ hell  _ this was a coincidence, but Claude’s motives were nearly impossible to understand.

Claude was still leaning on his  _ fucking  _ car and showed no signs of moving. Hoping to get a rise out of him, or at least to crack the smug mask he wore, Felix added, “Let me get this straight: you expect me to believe you just — did this  _ completely  _ out of the fucking goodness of your heart?”

Claude blinked. “What, you think I have some ulterior motive?”

“Everyone has a motive,” Felix said darkly. “ _ Especially _ you. What’s your angle?”

“Angle? Eesh, that sounds so  _ sinister,”  _ Claude smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “Let’s just say I like to keep my favorite band happy. Is that such a crime?”

A crime? Maybe not according to the strictest definition, but Felix remembered Dimitri, remembered him asleep on an air mattress in Felix’s bedroom, remembered Ingrid asking “So, what’d we miss?” and Dimitri lying through his teeth, and if that wasn’t a  _ crime _ , well—

“I don’t know what you’re up to,” Felix said at last. “But you need to stay the  _ fuck  _ away from us. Quit roleplaying the Good Samaritan and just  _ move on _ . And get off my  _ fucking  _ car.”

He punctuated that last sentence with a  _ thud,  _ slamming his open palm on the hood of his Volvo, and was gratified to see Claude jump. 

Unlocking the door, he slid into the driver’s seat and threw his backpack into the backseat, hands trembling with rage. He barely managed to buckle his seatbelt before his foot was on the gas pedal, speeding out of the parking lot faster than the speed limited allowed (he didn’t care; he just needed to be as far away from Claude von Riegan as possible.)

In the rearview mirror, Claude waved jauntily. His expression was unreadable, and then Felix turned right to merge onto the freeway, and Claude disappeared from view altogether.

_ fuck claude,  _ He texted Dorothea that night.

_ mood _

_ but also…. mood,  _ was all she texted back. (To her immense credit, she didn’t ask.)

_____

Their next practice went  _ much _ more smoothly than the first. 

It might’ve been Ingrid, who greeted Annette with a muted smile and a “Hey.” It might’ve been Dimitri, who’d done the work of printing out sheet music without being asked. It might’ve been their practice space (Annex B) was neutral ground compared to Dimitri’s basement. Whatever the reason, the majority of the two hours they spent rehearsing was, well,  _ actually  _ rehearsing. (Thank  _ God.  _ Was that so much to ask?)

At some point in the afternoon, taking five on the Annex couches, Sylvain mused, “Man, isn’t it crazy that we’re only just meeting after four years?”

The question was directed at Annette, who was perched haphazardly on the edge of the couch. “Erm, kind of,” she said. “I mean, I knew Dimitri in middle school, but that was a while ago.”

Sylvain shook his head. “Sure, maybe. But in high school? This school’s  _ tiny,  _ and you’re the  _ coolest.  _ Where were you hiding?”

Annette blushed and reached up to tuck a wayward strand of hair that had fallen out of her french braids behind one ear. “Um, I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve been here. Not hiding, really. Maybe you just didn’t look.”

It might have been Felix’s imagination, but Annette seemed tense. Irritated, even, judging by the set of her jaw. 

Evidently, no one in the room knew how to respond to the sudden, surprising change in atmosphere — especially not Sylvain, who blinked in surprise and said absolutely nothing.

“Alright, so that’s been five. We’ll take it from the coda at the bottom of page three,” said Dimitri smoothly. Normally, Felix would’ve assumed this was completely coincidental timing, but Annette flashed Dimitri a grateful smile, which he returned. 

_ Huh.  _ Apparently, Dimitri’s allergy to subtext had its limits.

_____

Even in practice, Annette was good.  _ Really  _ good. Felix still hadn’t figured out what made her so compelling to listen to, even with all the times one of them called “ _ hold _ ” or “ _ can we go back to the chorus _ ?” interrupting the flow of her voice. She wasn’t perfect, exactly (like the rest of them, she missed entrances and came in flat). But, God, the second she opened her mouth —

It was like someone reached inside of him, pulled at all the ugliness twisted into knots deep in the pit of his stomach, and flung him into the cosmos. Once, when Felix was younger and Rodrigue was still attempting his “good dad” schtick, he’d taken Felix and Glenn to the planetarium. Lying in the dark beneath artificial stars, Felix had felt small, but so full of wonder that his smallness seemed beautiful.

Annette’s voice was that planetarium sky. She sang, and gravity didn’t matter anymore.

He was able to get through practice by sheer force of will, his bass grounding him as it always did when the world seemed out of orbit. It was easier if he didn’t look at her; the sheet music in front of him was a convenient excuse. He’d already memorized his chords, but that music held his attention for the entire practice. 

If he’d hoped the impact of Annette’s voice would have dulled after the first time he’d heard her sing, he would’ve been disappointed. Fortunately (or unfortunately) Felix didn’t exactly have  _ experience  _ processing this kind of shit. No, the safest option was to pretend it didn’t matter and hope that eventually, he’d pretend so well that he’d fool himself.

Because Felix wasn’t a talker. Not in the way Dorothea, Sylvain, or, hell, even Dimitri were. Besides, even if he _were_ someone who reacted to _sharing_ _our_ _feelings_ with joy instead of a vague sense of unease, what exactly would he _say?_ How could he explain, without sounding like a complete _psychopath,_ that Annette’s voice — what, “held him captive”? If there was ever a sentence that would give him a one-way ticket to a sanitarium, that was fucking _it._

In the end, the practice went quickly. They managed to stumble through the entire setlist in an hour, with only minimal complaining (from Sylvain, about the amps; from Ingrid, about the school’s shitty drum set; from Dimitri, about their endless bickering.) 

Annette loitered at the edge of the annex, pretending to read something on her phone as the group trickled out of the room. Ingrid waved a wordless goodbye, which was new, and, Felix suspected, a side effect of the conversation they’d had by the creek. Annette returned the gesture with a nervous smile, somewhere between grateful and suspicious of Ingrid’s newfound— well, not kindness exactly. Politeness, maybe.

“Bye, Annette!” Sylvain called as he passed. Dimitri walked with him, so lost in thought that he nearly missed the doorway. He would’ve crashed into the concrete if Sylvain hadn’t caught his shoulders at the last moment and eased him through the entrance, a gesture Dimitri barely noticed. (He’d been distracted lately, and it bothered Felix. If he’d been anyone but himself, he might’ve asked about it.)

“Great practice today. See you Tuesday,” Sylvain added cheerfully as he followed Dimitri into the hallway (likely to make sure their fearless leader didn’t fall down a stairwell.)

“Have a good weekend,” called Annette. 

The sound of her voice reminded Felix that they were the only two left in the annex. Felix had his own reasons to linger — namely, Rodrigue, who was home early from a business trip — but Annette’s reluctance to leave confused him. She didn’t have  _ another  _ club meeting after band practice, did she? Or was it something else?

“Waiting for someone?” He asked evenly, slinging his guitar bag over one shoulder. 

“What?” Annette looked up at him, eyes wide, as if she’d also forgotten she wasn’t alone in the annex. “Oh, no. Well, kind of. My ride.” Her voice was apologetic. “There was a major accident on the bridge coming into town. Traffic’s backed up for miles. It might be another hour before she even gets on the freeway.”

The idea came to him in a flash. “Inbound or outbound?”

Annette stared at him. “The accident? Um, just inbound I think. The way out of town’s still clear. Or, at least,  _ clearer _ .”

“Then tell your ride I’m driving you home.”

“What? No, you don’t need —” Annette started to say, but then she caught herself. “Are you sure? It’s not too much trouble? Because I’m fine waiting here—”

If it were anyone else, Felix would’ve scowled and muttered something about politeness rituals. Strangely, though, Annette seemed like she wasn’t performing. The concern in her eyes appeared genuine— like she actually wanted to be sure she wasn’t bothering him before she took him up on his offer for something as minor as a ride home from school.

Maybe that was why Felix only shook his head. “I wouldn’t offer if it was ‘too much trouble.’”

Annette reached behind her to untangle her backpack straps. “I just wanted to be sure,” she said. “You know, that it wasn’t just a pity offer.”

Felix gave her a look. “You think I’m someone who does things out of pity?” 

Annette frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I guess I don’t know you well enough yet.” Then, before he could react to that statement, she asked, “So, where are you parked?”

Garegg Mach assigned parking spots based on a combination of factors, but all things being equal, the lower you were in the alphabet, the closer you parked. Felix, Ingrid, and Sylvain clustered together in the lower lot, close to the English wing. Dimitri, the lucky bastard, was within feet of the main entrance, only bested by Dorothea, who had the ideal spot: close enough to avoid a long walk, but far enough from administrative sightlines that she could easily ditch if she wanted. (Not that Dorothea ever did. She seemed to,  _ God _ , actually  _ like  _ school.) 

“Not far,” Felix said, and the two of them began the walk to his car.

Annette didn’t say anything as they passed through the hallways, her fingers flying on her phone keyboard, likely letting her ride know that she’d made other plans. Felix liked silence under normal circumstances, but he found himself wondering what Annette was thinking. He saw her around school sometimes, surrounded by a gaggle of overachievers who seemed like they sat around drinking tea and talking about their SAT scores for fun. He hadn’t known Annette before the party, hadn’t even known her  _ name,  _ but he’d assumed by the company she kept she’d be just like her friends.

Like she’d said, they didn’t know each other well enough yet, but he already wondered if he was wrong.

The walk across the parking lot was short, and he didn’t have time to think about it anymore before he unlocked the door and Annette climbed in. Felix threw his bass and his backpack into the backseat, grateful that he’d apparently had the foresight to clean out the passenger seat earlier in the week. Not that his car was ever  _ messy,  _ especially compared to Ingrid’s, but the stack of library books, grocery receipts, and old gym clothes that normally rode shotgun felt downright intimate, somehow. 

Annette buckled her seatbelt. “I live off of Windemere,” she said. “It’s not far. Just a right after the exit, then a left on Woodvale, and then drive to the end of the cul-de-sac. It’s the house with the blue door.”

“I’m not going to remember that,” said Felix, merging into traffic. 

“It’s by Dimitri’s old house,” Annette supplied helpfully. “You know, from middle school? Back before he moved. You know, um, when his dad —”

“What, the stepmonster?” In the corner of his eye, Annette made a face. Felix was too focused on the traffic in front of them to parse her expression. 

“Wait, I thought Dimitri liked his stepmom,” Annette said. “She always seemed really nice. She used to let me use their  _ huge  _ oven to bake every time I went over— or, well, at least before they moved.”

“Not Patricia. She’s….  _ fine,”  _ Felix clarified. “Edelgard, however… ” 

Edelgard hadn’t moved in with the Blaiddyds until high school, but Dimitri’s dad bought a larger house out of some inane hope that more physical space would encourage Dimitri and Edelgard to get along. By the looks of it, that plan still hadn’t worked out for him.

“Edelgard?” Annette asked. “Huh. I mean, I guess I could see that.”

“You could?” Felix asked, surprised by how quickly she’d changed her tune.

“Yeah,” Annette continued. “I mean, their personalities are so—I mean, they’re just both— they’re a lot alike if you think about it. They both have this superhero, save-the-world thing going on. If I was around myself all day, I think that’d be  _ exhausting.  _ ”

“Don’t tell Dimitri that,” said Felix dryly. “He hates it when anyone thinks they’re full siblings, or worse, twins. He’ll remind you any chance he gets that Edelgard’s a bottle blonde.”

“Really?” Annette pinched one of her french braids between her fingers. “I should ask her what brand she uses. I hate this carrot-y color.”

“Don’t,” Felix blurted before he could stop himself. Annette stared at him, her eyes wide, and Felix felt the need to continue. “Redheaded vocalists are a good gimmick. Memorable, even. The judges like what they remember.”

“Oh,” Annette said. Was that disappointment on her face, or was Felix imagining things? “Hang on,” She added, brow furrowed. “What about Sylvain and Ferdinand? You know, how everyone kept confusing them for each other? Red hair’s not  _ always  _ memorable.”

“That’s different. Besides the three of you, the only other redhead I can think of is Leonie Pinnelli.”

“And? What’s your point?”

Felix scoffed. “Sylvain spilled Gatorade on you at practice and  _ you _ apologized. No one’s getting you confused with Leonie.”

“He tripped on me!” Annette protested. Felix was still watching the road, but he could hear the frustration in her voice. “I was sitting on the floor, and he didn’t see me get up. And anyway, it wasn’t like he spilled it on  _ me  _ – really, the floor got the worst of it, so it was honestly my fault to begin with –”

“You know he’s not here, right? You don’t have to defend him  _ again, _ ” Felix said. “And you’re just proving my point. Do you really think  _ Leonie _ would be so worked up about something that happened an  _ hour  _ ago?”

“I don’t know,” Annette said hotly. “But are Ferdinand and Sylvain really all that similar?”

“ _ I  _ don’t know,” Felix said. “I try to avoid Ferdinand. You’d know better than I would.”

“Well,” Annette mused. “But you probably can’t avoid him forever. Speaking of, when are invitationals?”

Well, that was an ominously abrupt change of subject. “October 26th. Why?”

“Ferdinand invited himself and Lorenz, but I didn’t know the date.” Annette said sweetly, and then: “Oh, the light’s green. You should probably go—”

As if on cue, a cacophony of horns beeped behind him. Swearing under his breath, Felix hit the gas and merged onto the freeway.

_____

Driving on the freeway, they passed the accident, which still hadn’t cleared out after more than an hour, and the line of traffic extending for miles in the opposite direction. Glancing at the line of cars stretched bumper-to-bumper, Annette muttered “ _ Yikes _ ” under her breath, before she turned back to Felix.

“Thanks again for giving me a ride,” She said. “That looks — pretty bad. I owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Felix. He wasn’t really listening. The radio had switched to some god-awful pop song, and his right hand fiddled with the dial, scanning for something,  _ anything,  _ that wouldn’t make his ears bleed.

“I’d offer to give you a ride next time, but I don’t have my license,” Annette added. “Obviously, right? That’s the whole reason we’re in this situation.”

“Why not?” Felix asked, still scanning the stations. Country -  _ skip.  _ Talk radio -  _ skip.  _ Ad for the local car dealership -  _ skip. More _ fucking country -  _ skip.  _

“I don’t have a car to practice on,” admitted Annette. “My mom works all day, even weekends, so even if she’d let me, it’s not like —  _ ooh, wait, stop stop stop, go back! _ ” 

“ _ What _ ?” 

“The station. Go back one,” Annette pressed, and Felix obliged, turning back the dial one to the local classic rock station. A Fleetwood Mac song he vaguely recognized filled the speakers and Annette sighed happily. “Don’t you just _love_ this one?” She asked. “I used to _beg_ for this one every night before I went to sleep. It was my favorite lullaby.”

“Your mom sang you Fleetwood Mac?” Felix asked, mostly to make conversation. Annette frowned and looked at her hands.

“Um, my dad, actually,” she said. “Mom can’t carry a tune. She says I got my voice from him.”

“Oh.” Felix wasn’t sure how to respond. He remembered distantly that Rodrigue had mentioned Annette’s dad once, but like most of his newly-resurgent memories of Annette, things he hadn’t known he’d  _ known _ , he couldn’t remember the context. 

“But my mom’s more of a Talking Heads girl, anyways,” Annette said breezily. “So I don’t think she would’ve picked ‘Songbird’ if she’d been on lullaby duty.”

_ Songbird. That _ was the title. Oddly fitting, all things considered.

“Your dad listens to Fleetwood Mac and your mom likes the Talking Heads?” Felix said. “Tell me, what’s it like to grow up on  _ good _ music?”

“Really? What did your parents listen to?”

“Rodrigue’s favorite band is Wings,” Felix said. “Not the Beatles.  _ Wings. _ ”

“Rodrigue?”

“My old man,” Felix clarified. Calling Rodrigue “dad” felt wrong, even if it was, technically speaking, the truth. “Also, Billy Joel, Bon Jovi, and REO Speedwagon.”

“I’ve never even heard of that last one,” Annette sounded bewildered. Felix sighed.

“Trust me. You’re better off not knowing.”

With a quick glance over his shoulder, he merged into the left hand turning lane and put on his signal. Muscle memory had taken over at this point; once Annette had reminded him of Dimitri’s old address, he hadn’t needed her directions. He’d need her to remind him at some point, likely before her subdivision. Lost in thought, Felix almost missed Annette’s follow-up question.

“What about your mom? What does she listen to?”

Felix cleared his throat. She didn’t know, he reminded himself. All the same, his hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “She died when I was eight. I don’t remember much.”

“Oh,” Annette said quietly. Then, in a rush, she blurted out, “I’m sorry, I had no idea. God, that was just so insensitive for me to assume—”

“It’s fine,” Felix interrupted. “I think she liked Joni Mitchell.”

“ _ Oh _ ,” Annette said again, but differently this time; more hesitantly, if that were possible. “Me too.”

They were still stuck at the light, so Felix looked at her. “ _ Do _ you?”

“Of course I do. She’s _Joni Mitchell,”_ Annette argued. “She’s not some obscure underground artist; she’s a _legend._ What kind of singer would I be if I didn’t like _Joni Mitchell_? Would you want that kind of person in _your_ band? ”

“Point taken,” said Felix, who didn’t know enough about singers to argue. 

They still hadn’t moved from the light. Felix drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, while next to him, Annette stared at her phone. After a moment, Felix asked the question that had been on his mind since Annette had found him on the bleachers weeks earlier:

“Why’d you change your mind?”

Annette looked up from her phone, but only to stare out the front windshield at the traffic light which was still, improbably, red. “I don’t know. Does it really matter?”

“No,” Felix agreed and waited for Annette to fill the silence. Normally, he was content leaving well enough alone, but Annette had seemed fairly convinced when she’d turned down their impromptu offer. Had Dimitri said something to make her change her mind? Had  _ Sylvain?  _

The light changed, and Felix turned into the sprawling subdivision. Annette wasn’t saying anything, which made Felix worry that he’d completely misread the situation. Maybe her change of heart hadn’t been as drastic as he’d thought. Maybe it’d been as simple as a change in her schedule, or something similarly minor. Maybe he was overthinking things, and—

“Tell me about invitationals,” Annette spoke up at last. “Or, this whole competition thing. What’s it like?”

“What’s there to tell?” Felix said, navigating along winding, poorly-lit roads. “Dimitri’s the details man. He’ll have the information.”

Annette pouted. “No, no, not the details about who’s on when, or where we load equipment or boring stuff like that. I mean, what does it  _ feel  _ like? To perform in front of all of those people. Do you ever get nervous before you go on?”

Her voice was almost breathless, reminding Felix of the panicked look in her eye at Claude’s party; how vehemently she insisted that she didn’t  _ sing in front of strangers.  _

In a rare moment of unfiltered honesty, Felix admitted, “Every single performance.”

Annette’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you. You’re just saying that to be nice.”

“I’m not nice,” Felix said, which was also honest. He left out the addendum: except when it comes to you, apparently.

“You are  _ too,” _ Annette insisted. “A not-nice person wouldn’t offer to give someone a ride home, going  _ completely  _ out of their way —”

“I already told you, it’s no big deal,” Felix grumbled, but Annette was undeterred. 

“ — and driving around in the dark because of some traffic. You’re  _ nice.  _ Admit it, mister.”

Against his better judgment, Felix realized he was smiling. “Speaking of,” he said, mostly to distract himself. “Which one’s your turn?”

Annette peered into the dusk. “Make the left up ahead, right past the pond,” she said. “Or, wait, is it the right? I can’t see where the pond is.”

“You don’t know your own turn?” Felix asked.

“Of course I do!” Annette protested. “It’s just past the pond, but I can’t see which side of the street the pond’s on.”

“But muscle memory? You don’t just…  _ know  _ how to get home? Isn’t that something they teach five-year-olds?”

“I take it back,” said Annette, crossing her arms over her chest. “You aren’t nice after all. You’re a massive  _ jerk. _ ”

Felix let out a short huff of air that could’ve almost passed for laughter. “Whether or not I’m ‘nice’ doesn’t change the fact that you don’t know your address,” he said. 

“I know my  _ address _ . I just don’t—” Annette began, before she perked up. “Oh, wait, I see it now! It's left, after all.”

“You’re sure?” said Felix. “Speak now, or condemn us to a three-point-turn on a one-way road.”

“You’re a  _ villain, _ ” Annette said stubbornly. “Look, there it is! Woodvale Pond. We take a left.”

Felix peered into the darkness. “That’s a  _ pond?  _ It’s  _ enormous. _ ” A memory tugged at the back of his mind— something about ice skates, hockey sticks, and Dimitri — and he found himself saying, “I think I used to go skating there. In the winter, when it froze over.”

“I can’t picture you ice-skating,” Annette said. “What a weird mental image.”

Felix snorted. “Not figure-skating. Hockey.” His car rumbled down the gravel road, tires crunching as they rolled over the stones. “And not well. Glenn tried to teach us, but he and Ingrid were the only ones who were any good.”

Annette sighed. “Well, no matter how bad you  _ think  _ you were, I can basically guarantee I’d be worse. I  _ hate _ ice skating.”

“Bad balance?” Felix guessed.

She made a face. “Well, yeah, but I was also completely _terrified_ of the ice cracking. Just like that one scene in _Little Women_ —” (Felix hadn’t read _Little Women,_ but he managed to follow the general idea.) “All of a sudden— _BAM._ Under the ice in an instant, before anyone even noticed.”

“You worried about that as a  _ kid?”  _ Felix asked. “God, that’s dark.”

“What, you  _ never _ worried about drowning on the ice? Or even just  _ dying _ ?  _ Never _ ?”

Felix’s mom had died when he was in elementary school. Of course he had.  __ “Can’t say I did,” he lied smoothly. “You had some imagination.”

“I read a lot of really depressing books,” Annette offered. “I think my parents set me up for that. I mean, who picks  _ Fantine  _ as a middle name? It has a lot of baggage.”

“Fantine?”

“ _ Les Miserables?  _ You know, the big, French classic novel? Super famous?” Annette clarified. Felix shook his head, and Annette sighed. “Well, anyway, she’s a tragic heroine, because she had a baby out of wedlock—that’s Cosette—but no one knows about it, because she’d lose her job, which she needs to pay for Cosette, who’s living with these totally awful people, the Thenardiers— anyways, long story short, Fantine has to sell her hair, and then she becomes a prostitute, and then she dies.”

“What a great role model to name your kid after.”

Annette frowned. “It’s all much more tragic and beautiful than it sounds. I’m just really bad at telling stories— I keep getting distracted, or I forget some big important detail and have to loop back around to the beginning. And it’s just my middle name, anyway. It’s not like most people ever even know your middle name.”

“You just told me,” Felix pointed out.

“Hmm. I guess that’s true,” Annette mused. “So, I guess it’s only fair you tell me yours, right?”

Felix, who’d never understood the strange obsession around middle name secrecy, volunteered: “Hugo.”

“What?” Annette screeched, so suddenly that Felix jolted. “No way. You’re kidding. Your middle name’s  _ Hugo  _ and you’ve  _ never  _ read  _ Les Mis? _ ”

Felix wasn’t sure what the connection was. “No?”

“Hugo,” Annette repeated. “As in,  _ Victor Hugo.  _ The  _ author  _ of  _ Les Mis. _ ”

“That doesn’t magically change my answer. I haven’t read it.”

“But you’ve seen the musical, right? Or at least the movie?” Annette pleaded. “The BBC miniseries?  _ Something _ ?”

“Still no,” Felix admitted. “I don’t like musicals.”

“ _ Les Mis  _ isn’t  _ just  _ a musical. It’s  _ legendary, _ And it was a book first, anyways, so even if you don’t like musicals—”

“I’m not much of a reader,” Felix admitted. “And picking up a book just because I share a name with the author sounds like a bad reason.”

“So don’t read it,” said Annette defensively. “It’s on Spotify. You have to be careful, though, because there are so many different cast recordings, and some of them are much better than the others, but none of them are perfect—”

“Did you miss the part where I said I don’t like musicals?”

Annette squinted at him. “Do you  _ actually  _ not like musicals, or are you just saying that because you’re embarrassed you’ve never listened to  _ Les Mis  _ before?”

“Trust me,” Felix said dryly. “I’m not lying about liking musicals to save my own fragile ego.”

Annette rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “You have a fragile ego? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“It’s like you said,” Felix remarked. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Yet,” Annette added. 

“Yet.” Felix found himself agreeing.

Up ahead, Felix spotted the sign for her neighborhood and realized with a start that they were close to her house. A quick glance at the dashboard clock told him they’d been driving for thirty minutes— a far cry from the five or ten he’d expected based on how it felt, driving with Annette, listening to the sound of her voice as she rambled about things he barely understood.

“Oh,” Annette was saying. “That’s my neighborhood up there. I’m at the end of the cul-de-sac, so—I mean, it’s just a one-way street. I don’t really need to give directions anymore.” Her voice was reluctant. If Felix didn’t know better, he’d wonder if her mind was consumed with the same thoughts as his— that he’d liked driving her; that he was disappointed she was almost home.

“Any more?” He asked. “I feel like I did most of the navigating.”

“Hey!” Annette protested. “It’s  _ my house.  _ I feel like I’d know how to get to my own house better than you would.”

“You’d think, but here we are,” said Felix, turning off his high-beams as they entered the subdivision. He could practically feel his car exhale as they transitioned from gravel to smooth pavement again.

“Ugh,” Annette groaned dramatically. “You’re the  _ worst. _ ”

“First I’m nice, then I’m a jerk, then I’m a villain, and now I’m the worst?” asked Felix. “So which one is it?”

Annette thought for a moment. “Somewhere between ‘jerk’ and ‘villain,’” She decided. “Depending on if you promise to listen to at least one  _ Les Mis  _ song tonight when you get home. If you listen to the entire thing, you’re back at ‘nice’ again.”

Felix frowned. “You really like that musical, huh?”

“And the book,” Annette beamed. “But, yeah, of  _ course _ . I’ve seen it too many times to count. Don’t you have things like that?”

Felix ignored her question. “So what I’m hearing is, your parents raised you on Stevie Nicks and David Byrne, but you choose to listen to _musicals_.”

“I don’t  _ only  _ listen to musicals,” said Annette. “And anyway, you can’t judge. You haven’t even listened to it yet. How do you know if you’ll like it or not?”

A corner of Felix’s mouth twitched. “Just a guess.”

“Oh, sure, because your angry sadboy music is the  _ height  _ of art, but songs about revolution, and love, and justice, and the, the ‘to love another person is to see the face of God’,  _ those  _ are just silly,” Annette complained.

_ To love another person is to see the face of God.  _ Something about that sentence, in Annette’s voice, when Felix had spent weeks in crisis over the almost  _ religious  _ way her singing affected him, made the air in the car feel suddenly claustrophobic.

He was suddenly very grateful for the space between them and the steering wheel in his hands. The road in front of them meant he had a convenient excuse to avoid looking at her face.

“Angry sadboy music?” He deflected. “What exactly are you grouping, there?”

“I don’t know.” Annette sounded exasperated. Good; that meant she hadn’t noticed how fast his pulse was racing or the faint flush on his skin. “It just seems like the type of stuff you’d listen to.”

As Felix tried to puzzle out what she meant by this, they rounded the final corner of the neighborhood. Like Annette had promised, a small house with a blue door awaited them, the front porch light illuminating a path from the curb to the house. 

Annette looked up at Felix. “So, um, that’s me,” she said. “You can just drop me off outside - you don’t have to come in or anything. I mean, you  _ could,  _ if you’re in the mood for reheated leftover lasagna.”

Felix shook his head. It was getting late, which under normal circumstances, didn’t matter, but this week, Rodrigue was working from home. Felix didn’t want to give his dad any more excuses to try and _make_ _conversation_. “No, I should go,” he said, putting the car into park. “Homework.”

It was a lame excuse, and one Annette seemed to register as an excuse, but she only shrugged. “That’s totally fine. I just, um, wanted to ask.”

In an instant, their previous awkwardness was back with a vengeance. Felix felt strangely like they were performing a skit. As Annette unbuckled her seatbelt and reached between her feet for her backpack, she hesitated, her hand stalling on the door handle.

“So, um,” She mumbled, and then cleared his throat. “I know this was just a fluke, and I hate to ask, but— you know, since we’re both already  _ there _ —” Annette struggled to find the words. “Would you mind giving me a ride home sometimes? Just from rehearsal, since it’s a huge hassle taking the activity bus, and—”

“Sure,” Felix interrupted.

She blinked. “Really? Oh, wow, you’re a lifesaver. It’s so hard trying to find rides from everything, which is  _ such _ a minor thing, but—”

“Just after practice? Not every day?”

“Oh. Um, just rehearsals,” said Annette. “I can take the bus most of the time.” 

Felix nodded. “Sure. Tuesday, then.”

“Right. Tuesday,” Annette repeated. She still hadn’t moved; her hand frozen on the door handle. She bit her lower lip, and opened her mouth, only to immediately close it again. She swallowed,  _ hard _ . The seconds ticked on, torturously slow. Neither of them said anything.

“Well, um, thanks again for the ride,” Annette said at last. She pushed open the door and stepped out onto the curb.

Felix watched her leave, making sure she’d made it inside before he drove off into the night.

_____

He was lying on his bed that night when he got a text from a number he didn’t recognize. It looked like a Spotify link, but what it was linking  _ to,  _ Felix couldn’t immediately tell. Disregarding every single technology safety lecture he’d been forced to sit through, he clicked on it and found himself looking at a playlist titled, simply enough, “the definitive les mis.” A quick look informed him that there were at least ten different recordings, and that was just including the ones that had made the cut. Who knew how many others existed? Fifteen?  _ Twenty _ ?

As he was pondering this, a second text came in:

_ btw this is annette  _ [angel emoji]

His phone helpfully filled in the contact information as “Maybe: annette [angel emoji]”. Felix, who’d already made  _ many  _ out of character decisions in the last few hours without any sign of slowing down, decided to keep it.

_ i assumed,  _ he texted.

_ how’d you get my number? _

The response was almost instant.

_ dorothea _

_ i told her we had a les mis emergency _

_ hope that’s okay/not creepy!!! _

_ but since we’re in a band we should prob have contact info right _

As if Annette could ever manage to be creepy, Felix thought. If someone drew a venn diagram comparing Annette’s personality and the word “creepy,” they would end up with two circles in separate zip codes.

He replied:

_ yeah _

And then:

_ how many fucking versions of les mis exist _

_ wasn’t the original enough why do you also need the 10 and 20 yr  _

He could practically see her eye roll as she responded:

_ because they’re different casts!!! different performers means the music is different!!! _

_ also they change the arrangements sometimes _

_ you’d know that if you actually LISTENED TO IT you uncultured SWINE  _ [pig emoji]

_ just try it ok i sent you a playlist and everything _

She had a point, which made Felix wonder:

_ you already had this made, right _

….

Annette was suspiciously silent. Felix watched the three little dots for what seemed like an eternity before she texted back:

_ kind of? _

_ i like unofficially knew which ones i liked best _

_ does it make you more likely to listen if i made it just for you  _ [eyes emoji]

He was quickly learning that Annette really liked emojis. 

_ no,  _ he texted.

_ i still don’t like musicals _

A moment later, Annette replied:

_ you are IMPOSSIBLE _

Felix didn’t realize he was smiling until a sharp knock at the door wiped the smile from his face.  _ Right _ . Rodrigue. In the post band practice glow, he’d almost forgotten he wasn’t home alone.

Without fully understanding why, his phone suddenly burned in his hands. Quickly, but not quickly enough, he tossed it out of his grasp. It fell off his comforter and landed with a faint  _ thud  _ on his carpet _ ,  _ just as Rodrigue opened the door.

Rodrigue, despite the fact that he’d spent the day working from home, was still dressed in business professional. His khakis were freshly dry-cleaned, lacking a single wrinkle even after a day of sitting at his desk. He raised an eyebrow and gestured wordlessly to Felix’s phone. “What were you looking at?” He asked.

Felix crossed his arms over his chest. “Porn,” He said, with an edge to his voice. “The disgusting, degrading stuff. You should be ashamed of how you raised me.”

“Fine, fine. Don’t tell me,” Rodrigue sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He looked very tired as he added, “You’re entitled to your privacy and all. It’s healthy for you to keep things from me sometimes.”

Felix gritted his teeth. “Did you  _ want _ something, or did you just come to bother me with bullshit parenting advice?”

Rodrigue looked wounded. “I just came to ask how your day was,” he said. “I heard you come in, but I was on a call. You know how Washington is. I couldn’t just  _ step away _ .”

He waited expectantly, and prompted again, once Felix’s silence had lingered for a moment too long: “So. How was your day?”

“Fine,” Felix spat. His lip curled. “There. You’ve done your due diligence and confirmed with your own eyes that your kid didn’t die while you were away last week.” His jaw tightened. “Is that everything?”

Rodrigue frowned. “Felix, why does  _ everything  _ have to be an argument? I ask you about your day, and you completely lash out. Can’t we just have a normal conversation?”

Felix stared at him. His hands twitched, aching to form themselves into fists. Normal conversation? Rodrigue was absent for days,  _ weeks  _ at a time, with no word except for the occasional reminder about a grocery delivery. Who was he to act like this was  _ Felix’s  _ fault? On what fucking  _ planet  _ was  _ Rodrigue  _ king of healthy communication?

But Rodrigue only pinched the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and sighed, slowly, and more dramatically than was likely necessary, before he fixed Felix with a probing glance. “That’s all I wanted to say,” he said. “I’ll be back in Washington on Sunday afternoon, so you’ll be on your own until I get back.”

“Not a problem,” Felix snapped. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Rodrigue had been there at some point. He must’ve been; Glenn was barely two years older than Felix, and they hadn’t raised themselves from birth, after all. Felix remembered Rodrigue after the funeral, staring at a tangled mess of Felix’s mother’s necklaces like they were a nest of vipers, carefully untangling the knots as he sorted them into  _ keep  _ and  _ donate.  _ He remembered Rodrigue’s disastrous first attempts at cooking, and how often Felix and Glenn ate cereal, pizza, or takeout for dinner instead. 

Felix had been so focused on bottling his own grief inside him that when Rodrigue announced he was taking a new job, one several hours away, one that would require him to hire an au pair until Felix and Glenn were old enough to take care of themselves, he’d exploded.

“I hate you,” He’d screamed. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I wish you died instead of mom.”

Rodrigue had gone into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. The lock had turned with a faint  _ click.  _ He sat in there alone for a very long time; so long that Felix had been afraid. When he came out, at last, his eyes were red. “I’m taking the job,” He told Felix and Glenn. “And I don’t want to hear any more complaining about it.”

They’d never spoken about it again.

In the present, Rodrigue sighed and closed Felix’s door behind him with a firm  _ thud.  _ Felix waited until the sound of his retreating footsteps signified he was heading back downstairs before he reached for his phone

There were two new messages from Annette, both sent a few minutes after her last text.

_ okay but seriously it’s not a big thing  _

_ i just think it’s a good musical but it’s okay if you don’t  _ [smiley face]

Felix’s fingers paused over the keyboard. He chewed his lip before he typed:

_ listening to it now.  _

No reply, which wasn’t that surprising, considering it was almost midnight. (Annette was probably already asleep.)

Felix reached under the bed into his backpack for his headphones and plugged them into his phone before reopening the Spotify link she’d sent. Laying back on his pillow, he placed the earbuds in his ears, adjusted the volume, and after a slight pause, clicked “play” on the first track.

_ “Look down, look down / Don't look 'em in the eye / Look down, look down /You're here until you die…”  _

_____

Felix expected to listen to one song,  _ maybe  _ two, to humor Annette. To his immense shock, he found himself listening to the entire album. He listened as Valjean swore to reform himself; as Fantine sacrificed herself for her daughter; as Javert swore to hunt down the fugitive who had become his obsession; as the barricade rose and fell; as Eponine died; as Cosette and Marius were married.

And then he listened to it again.

Felix still hadn’t changed his opinion on musicals as a whole, but he had to admit that there was something different about  _ Les Mis. _ The music wasn’t his taste, and he seriously doubted he ever would’ve listened to the score if Annette hadn’t encouraged him. Some of the lyrics felt painfully on the nose, and the actress who played young Cosette was so grating that he skipped over “Castle on a Cloud” on his re-listen. The story, on the other hand—

Well. On that front, at least, he completely understood Annette’s obsession.

He fell asleep somewhere between “Stars” and “Red and Black,” and woke up the next morning with the imprint of his headphone wire on his cheek and thirteen new texts from Annette:

_ WHAT _

_ omg really?? _

_ what do you think? _

_ change your mind about musicals yet? _

[ … ]

_ i can’t believe you just told me you’re listening to my favorite musical but now you’re ignoring me  _

_ i need to know your opinions!!! _

_ warning though if you say anything bad about cosette i WILL fight you  _

_ we’re the same voice part i’m biased but also i love her _

[ … ]

_ wake up already!! _

_ the suspense is KILLING ME _

_ i need to know if you like it or not bc if you don’t like it we can’t be friends anymore (jk) _

_ but seriously tell me _

[ … ]

_ FELIX _

He texted back:

_ just woke up _

_ it’s good _

_ just good???  _ was Annette’s reply.

_ really good,  _ he amended.

Annette responded:

_ really good is a start  _ [blushing smiley face emoji]

_ so… what about musicals in general? _

_ are you still swearing off musicals? _

Felix scoffed.

_ don’t push your luck,  _ he texted

_ one musical is an exception, not the rule _

_ aww really _ , Annette replied

_ i think you’d really like rent _

_ or bloody bloody andrew jackson _

_ they’re both very angry sadboy music _

_ since that’s more your speed _

Felix didn’t know enough about musicals to be sure, but he had the sneaking suspicion Annette was mocking him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs they reference are: “You’re Gonna Go Far Kid” by The Offspring, “Song 2” by Blur, and “Weird Fishes” by Radiohead, and then “Decode” by Paramore, “Moaning Lisa Smile” by Wolf Alice, and “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane. That’s not really a cohesive “sound,” but they’re in high school, so “a cohesive sound” isn’t really a thing. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey,” Felix said, sidling up to Annette. His bass hung from a strap around his neck and rested lightly in his right hand. “You’re shaking.”
> 
> Annette glared at him. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
> 
> The words came out sharply, but Felix, irritatingly enough, seemed as unflappable as ever. “If Sylvain told you to try picturing the crowd in their underwear—”
> 
> “Why would you think that?” Annette’s voice was shrill. “Because I— I’m just some kind of — stick-in-the-mud and I can’t handle a joke? Is that it?”
> 
> Felix blinked. “No,” he said slowly, “because he just told me to try that, and it’s bullshit advice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief (minor) content warning for underage drinking, a quick drug mention (no actual drug use).
> 
> Thanks for reading & your kudos! <3

The Saturday before invitationals dealt a critical hit to Annette’s executive function, Paralyzed by nerves, it took her a full hour to drag herself out of bed and downtown to Leicester Square, the outdoor pedestrian mall, where she’d agreed to meet Lysithea and Ashe for their biweekly study session. By the time her mom dropped her off in front of the Golden Deer Cafe & Grill, Lysithea had already claimed a corner table and was typing furiously on her laptop, a plate of pastries by her side.

Annette had initially wanted to spend the day with Mercedes, hopefully baking and watching Halloween movies — Mercedes  _ loved  _ ghost stories — but when she’d texted her friend on Friday afternoon, Mercedes had taken an hour to reply.

_ i can’t :( i have to work 10-4:30,  _ she’d sent at last. Annette had stared at the message for a long time — first thinking that Mercedes was working a lot of hours lately, next worrying that she’d done something to make her friend mad, then irritated at herself for immediately jumping to the worst conclusion, and finally sending back:

_ aww  _ [four crying emojis] 

_ it’s okay i’ll stop by after studygroup!!! ily <3 _

Which, in the end, was fine. Amidst the whirlwind of Claude’s, the band, and rehearsals for invitationals, Annette had been slacking on her study group attendance. Ashe had even sent her a text asking if everything was okay. Which, now that she thought of it — had she ever responded to that text? She hoped she had, but she’d been so busy lately that she barely had time to  _ breathe _ .

“Hi! I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said to Lysithea as she slid into one of the empty chairs. “Ooh, what are those? Is that a pumpkin chocolate-chip—”

Lysithea glared up at her. Her hand hovered protectively over the plate. “Desserts are for people who show up on time,” she said.

“But that’s just you,” said Annette, wounded. “You can’t possibly eat all of those by yourself.”

“What makes you think that?” Lysithea asked. “Ashe went to go buy a sandwich a few minutes ago. He’s been here as long as I have.” She took a bite of a lemon petit four, holding a napkin beneath her mouth with her free hand to collect the crumbs. 

Annette stared at the assortment of desserts longingly, before she looked back at Lysithea with her best puppy-dog eyes. “Pretty please? If I promise I’ll never, ever,  _ ever _ be late again?”

Lysithea sighed and passed the plate to Annette. “ _ Fine _ . But just one,” She grumbled. “And only because I know if I said no, you’d just keep begging until you got your way. If I give in now, there’s a better chance of getting some  _ studying _ done at this study session.”

Annette cheered and reached for a brownie. “You’re my favorite person. Did you know that?”

“I think anyone who offers you dessert becomes your new favorite person,” Lysithea commented. “You succumb so easily to bribery. You’d make a horrible politician.”

“Or a great one,” Annette countered, taking a bite of her brownie. “More politicians should accept baked goods as bribes.” 

Lysithea shook her head. Her delicate amethyst earrings moved with her. “I don’t think that’s how that works,” she said. “Actually, no, I’ll amend my statement. I’m  _ sure _ that’s not how that works.”

“How  _ what _ works?” asked Annette. “Bribery, or politicians? Because, I feel like you only have experience with  _ one  _ of those things, so I don’t think you can really say either way. Unless you’ve been, like, putting on a Hannah Montana wig and going to DC—”

Lysithea blinked. “Hannah Montana?” 

Annette was reminded, once again, that Lysithea had been homeschooled for most of elementary school and skipped seventh grade. While Annette was reading pulpy tween novels and watching Disney Channel, Lysithea was reading Russian literature and listening to Tchaikovsky. For the most part, Lysithea’s secret love for animated children’s shows and Annette’s obsession with classic literature meant they understood each other well enough, but every now and then, a reference or two slipped through the cracks.

“It’s from a TV show. She’s a normal girl, but she leads a secret double life and —” Lysithea continued to stare at her blankly, and Annette gave up. “Never mind, it’s not important. But my point is, how can you say for sure that the world  _ wouldn’t _ be better if we started bribing people with desserts? Since you haven’t tried it?”

Lysithea wrinkled her nose. “I haven’t tried a lot of things. That doesn’t mean I need to try them to know they’re bad ideas. Also, that would mean fewer desserts for me.” To punctuate her point, she took a miniature strawberry cupcake from her plate and took a delicate bite.

“Oh, right,” Annette admitted. “Actually, yeah, scratch that, this is a  _ horrible  _ idea.”

Lysithea smiled triumphantly, for a brief moment, before her face fell, and she sighed. “Speaking of horrible ideas, have you looked over the problem set? It’s all problems we’ve done before, just with slightly different numbers. It’s completely useless if we want to be prepared for the next test.”

Annette, who’d barely scraped by with a B+ on the last test ( _goddamn_ _polynomials_ ), cleared her throat. “What’s so bad about that? We could use the practice. Or, well, you probably don’t, but I do.”

“I can use practice,” Lysithea clarified. “I just hate busywork.”

“Is it really busywork if it helps you learn?” Annette asked, to which Lysithea only sighed.

“Ashe said the exact same thing.”

As if on cue, Ashe returned to their table, carrying a bottle of lemonade and a grilled cheese sandwich on a glass plate. “What did I say?”

“You don’t believe in busywork,” said Lysithea.

Ashe took a bite of his sandwich. “I don’t,” he slurred through a mouthful of gooey cheese and sourdough bread. “It’s work for teachers to grade things, so why would someone assign something just to make more work?”

Lysithea looked at him with pity. “Ashe, you sweet summer child,” she said.

_ “What? _ What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He has a point. Also, we’re both older than you,” Annette pointed out helpfully, and then yelped as Lysithea kicked her underneath the table. “Hey!  _ Ouch _ .”

“So, what number are we on?” Ashe asked, taking another large bite of his sandwich. Wordlessly, Annette gestured to the question — a complicated three-part problem involving vectors and binomial functions — and Ashe groaned. “Oh,  _ man _ . I hate vector graphs.”

Annette nodded sympathetically. “Calculus is the devil.”

“Both of you,” Lysithea scoffed. “It’s not that difficult. We did this same exact problem a few weeks ago with different variables. Don’t you remember?”

Ashe stared at Lysithea blankly. Annette could practically see the gears turning in his head.

“Um, for the sake of argument, totally hypothetically, let’s pretend we don’t remember,” she said.

Lysithea let out an exasperated huff, but Annette knew she was secretly pleased to have the upper hand. “Oh, for crying out loud,” she said. “If I’d known I’d be  _ tutoring _ both of you, I would’ve charged an hourly rate. Let’s see, so starting at the beginning…” She bent over their problem set, pencil working furiously as she rambled about polynomial division and derivatives.

Over Lysithea’s head, Ashe mouthed ‘ _ thank you.’  _ Annette beamed at him.

_____

Leicester Square was just out of walking distance from Fergus’s, but Ashe lived close enough to the diner that his dad offered both of them a ride. Lysithea, who lived midway between Leicester Square and the Adrestia Theater on the other side of town, waved away the offer, saying she had more work to do and she’d get a ride from Lorenz. Ashe and Annette left Lysithea hunched over a stack of Russian literature, some of which looked like they were in the original Cyrillic. 

When Annette found Mercedes, she was sitting at a table in the back sipping a cup of coffee. The diner was mostly empty — it was 3:00 on a Saturday, which was too late for brunch and too early for either the dinner or post-game crowds — and Mercedes, engrossed in a book, didn’t notice Annette approaching.

“Whatcha reading?” Annette asked, sliding into the booth. Mercedes jolted and slammed the book shut before Annette had a chance to read the title.

“Oh, nothing,” Mercedes said breezily, slipping the book into her purse. “Just something I picked up. How was your study group?” 

“Same-old, same-old,” said Annette. “Lysithea basically just taught us Calculus, but she does that every week. But more importantly, what’s new with you? You look exhausted.” She frowned. “Are they working you too hard? Say the word and I’ll go ‘accidentally’ set the dumpster on fire so you can clock out early.”

Mercedes ran a hand through her hair, which had started to come loose from her ponytail. “No, no, I’m alright. It’s not that. Work is fine.” She chewed her lower lip. “I just haven’t been sleeping well lately. It’s no one’s fault, I’m just, well, tired. That’s all.”

“Anything I can do to help?” Annette asked. “I don’t have a car, but that doesn’t mean I’m totally useless. I could go through your email and unsubscribe you from all those mailing lists, or I could clean your bathroom, or, ooh, what about if I shredded all your junk mail?”

Mercedes shook her head. “I’ll be okay. You’re so busy with band practice. I don’t want to bother you.”

Annette glared at her. “ _ Mercie _ .”

Mercedes relented. “Well, if you’re so sure, there  _ is  _ actually —” She reached into her purse, rummaging around until she pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “— one thing. Could you check if the school library has these? I was going to buy them, but if you could borrow them for me, that would be wonderful.”

Annette scanned the list briefly: a vegetarian cookbook; a book about the criminal justice system;  _ The Grapes of Wrath. _

“Of course,” she said, pocketing the list. “I mean, I don’t know about the  _ cookbook _ , but the others? We’ll definitely have those. They assign  _ Grapes of Wrath  _ every year for freshman English.”

Mercedes still looked unsure. “I don’t need them any time soon, so if rehearsals are too much, I can wait for a few weeks.”

Annette shook her head. “No, I can totally get them. I’ll just stop by the library next week. Easy. What do you need these for, anyway? Just for fun, or is there, like, a specific mission?”

“Oh. Just for fun,” Mercedes offered with a half-smile. “I’ve just been trying to read more lately. I’ve been out of the habit since - well, since I came back. It seemed like as good a time as any to get back into it.”

It didn’t sound very convincing, but Annette didn’t push it. 

“I wish I had more time to read. Between midterms and invitationals, it’s just, no luck. Speaking of, are you coming? To invitationals?”

Mercedes looked genuinely surprised. “Of course I’m coming. It’s been on my calendar for weeks. Why wouldn’t I come?”

“I don’t know,” Annette said, suddenly sheepish. “You’ve just been working a lot, and I wasn’t sure if you forgot, or if you had another shift or something more important to do.”

Mercedes gave her a look. “Nothing’s more important than my best friend,” she said firmly. “I’ll be there.”

On the car ride home from Fergus’s, her forehead pressed against the window, Annette found herself thinking about that statement. If friendship was support and trust, she hadn’t been a very good best friend to Mercedes lately. A part of her rationalized this as the stress of band rehearsals taking their toll, but she knew that wasn’t true. Mercedes had always kept things to herself, so it was never really clear to Annette when she should pry, but something felt  _ off  _ lately in a way she didn’t like.

She was silent for the length of the drive home. As they pulled into their driveway, her mom asked, “You’re unusually quiet today. Something on your mind?” 

“Just nerves,” said Annette. It wasn’t a total lie. She  _ had  _ spent the past few nights waking up from stress nightmares. “I know we’ve been rehearsing for a month, but I guess it’s just starting to hit me that this is  _ real.  _ What if I choke? What if I just forget my part, or I lose my voice, or I just ruin  _ everything _ ?”

Unbuckling her seatbelt, her mom gave Annette a look. “My little worrier,” she said affectionately. “What’s the more likely scenario? That you remember everything you’ve been practicing, or, poof, it just disappears?”

_ You know I’m a magnet for insane, improbable disasters,  _ Annette thought, but Mama looked so proud of her that she swallowed the thought and followed her mom into the house.

_____

The week passed by in a blur of homerooms, lunch periods, study halls, and last-minute rehearsals, until finally, improbably, Annette found herself onstage in the auditorium of a local community center, a thick velvet curtain all that stood between her and the faint roar of the crowd.

Ingrid rolled her shoulders, and then her neck, with a faint crack. She reached down to make her final tweaks to the drum kit, her hands steady as she adjusted the clutch on the hi-hat.

The rest of the band made similar last-minute adjustments. Dimitri played a scale on his keyboard, turned the knob controlling the volume slightly, and tried the same scale again. Sylvain strummed a chord on his Gibson with a light blue guitar pick, biting his lip in deep concentration. Annette, who had nothing to do with her hands, stood awkwardly to the side in her semi-sheer glitter top — the one that had seemed so perfect from the comfort of her own bedroom but now, here, made her feel like a child.

Felix seemed to be the only one not consumed by nervous energy. He’d tuned his bass already, and it sat, perched on a guitar stand, silhouetted against the darkness of the curtain. Overhead, one of the lighting crew fine-tuned the fresnel spot, resetting it from the last group’s performance. Annette realized suddenly that her hands were trembling.

“Two minutes to curtain,” called the stage manager, a college student with a clipboard who was, Annette thought, taking this whole thing very seriously for a high school battle of the bands invitational competition.

Annette took a deep breath and let it out in short, aggressive puffs. It was supposed to calm nerves, but it failed on that front. She still felt nervous, but now she had the added bonus of also feeling winded and a little bit light-headed.

“Hey,” Felix said, sidling up to Annette. His bass hung from a strap around his neck and rested lightly in his right hand. “You’re shaking.”

Annette glared at him. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

The words came out sharply, but Felix, irritatingly enough, seemed as unflappable as ever. “If Sylvain told you to try picturing the crowd in their underwear—”

“Why would you think that?” Annette’s voice was shrill. “Because I— I’m just some kind of — stick-in-the-mud and I can’t handle a joke? Is that it?”

Felix blinked. “No,” he said slowly, “because he just told me to try that, and it’s bullshit advice.”

“Oh.  _ Right.”  _ God, she sounded  _ insane,  _ even to her own ears. She swallowed, aware of the buzzing of the overhead lights, the roar of the crowd, and the faint  _ hum  _ as Sylvain plugged his guitar into an amp. The lights shifted, bathing the stage in a warm glow, as Sylvain, Dimitri, and Ingrid settled into their instruments. 

The stage manager was back. “One minute,” she announced and disappeared into the wings. 

Felix hadn’t moved. “Annette.  _ Breathe.  _ You’re gonna pass out.”

“I’m trying,” Annette said. ‘I just know how important this is to everyone, and I don’t—”

“It’s not,” Felix interrupted.

“What?”

“It’s not important,” Felix clarified. “Basically everyone makes it past invitationals. You show up with a fucking musical blender and they say hey, wonderful, here’s an invitation to semis, see you in February.”

“Really? But what about—”

“Thirty seconds,” came the call. Felix shook his head.

“Just  _ sing,  _ Annette,” he said, as he stepped back to his position on the stage. With a jerk of his head, he wordlessly gestured to the microphone.

Annette swallowed. In a show of resolve that didn’t match the pit of nerves inside her, she took one step forward, and then another, until she was at the front of the stage.

The curtain rose.

The lights in her eyes blocked out the sea of faces. Somewhere in the crowd sat Mercedes, along with Ferdinand and Dorothea, and potentially Lorenz, depending on whether or not Dorothea had allowed Ferdinand to bring him along. This made it better, somehow. Annette could almost pretend, despite the thrum of electricity building in her chest, that a crowd of people wasn’t waiting to watch her sing.

Sylvain stepped forward so that he was at a diagonal behind Annette. His guitar rested in his hands. Behind him, the rest of the band waited for her signal. Annette could practically see Ingrid’s hands twitching on her drumsticks, as the seconds ticked on.

At the back of the room, a small table of three judges sat, positioned just in front of the ragtag lighting booth. As with the rest of the faces in the crowd, theirs were obscured by the overbearing power of the spotlights. Annette made out their shapes, dimly silhouetted against the back of the theater, but little else.

The crowd stayed silent, save for a few whispered conversations. They waited. The room held its breath.

_ Now or never,  _ Annette thought. With a firm set to her jaw, she nodded.

And Sylvain began to play.

The opening guitar riff hit the room, and those in the crowd who recognized the song (they’d picked Paramore for the opener, so that was a fair number) began to cheer. Annette stepped up to the microphone, the thudding pulse of the song echoing in her bones. Her mouth felt dry as she began to sing:

_ “How can I decide what's right _

_ When you're clouding up my mind? _

_ I can't win your losing fight all the time _

_ How can I ever own what's mine _

_ When you're always taking sides _

_ But you won't take away my pride  _

_ No not this time  _

_ Not this time —”  _

The song built as Ingrid took the end of the verse and ran with it, pounding out a frantic rhythm on the drums as Sylvain’s guitar wailed to match it. Somewhere, distantly, Annette was aware of the room, the floor, the ceiling, but only in the fugue state of a lucid dreamer. She felt like a voice without a body, meant for the lyrics that left her mouth and the notes they landed on. Everything else was confetti.

The crowd was already cheering in anticipation of the chorus. The pressure built, and built, and built, rumbling from deep within. In her peripheral vision, Annette saw Sylvain wink at her, and that was enough to remind her to take a deep breath, steadying herself for the next phrase.

She wailed: 

_ “How did we get here? _

_ Well, I used to know you so well. _

_ How did we get here? _

_ Well, I think I know. _ ”

The brief instrumental break before the second verse gave her a chance to catch her breath. Annette ran a hand through her hair and realized she was sweating. The thought unexpectedly exhilarated her. She felt full, so full that she barely even noticed she’d, at some point, stopped trembling.

Some part of her felt like an imposter. Like she’d somehow fooled everyone — her friends; her classmates; her  _ band _ — into thinking she belonged. Some part of her felt like a scared little girl playing at being the type of girl who belonged in a band, even if it  _ was  _ just a garage band.

Annette knew this was the adrenaline talking. Once the dust settled and she made her way backstage, the exhilaration that flooded her veins would dry up. But here, in this moment, she felt bigger than herself. The music echoed in her, and of her, and through her, and from her. She gave herself over to it completely. She felt  _ limitless _ . 

Sylvain’s guitar picked back up. Annette held the microphone in her hands and launched into the next verse.

_ “The truth is hiding in your eyes _

_ And it's hanging on your tongue _

_ Just boiling in my blood _

_ But you think that I can't see _ ”

The music swelled. Annette could hear Ingrid’s voice harmonizing with hers, Ingrid’s smooth mezzo dancing with Annette’s sharp soprano at the end of the line. The sounds of the audience; the watchful eyes of the judges; everything faded into nothingness. Annette was aware of the music, and the music alone.

_ “What kind of man that you are _

_ If you're a man at all _

_ Well, I will figure this one out _

_ On my own — ” _

_ “On my own _

_ (I'm screaming, ‘I love you so!’) _

_ On my own _

_ (My thoughts you can't decode)” _

Her entire body was wrapped in the sound. She closed her eyes, wrapping her fingers around the microphone, and leaned closer, breathlessly. Her heart hundred in her chest like a racehorse on a track, and Annette pulsed, arching her back, every muscle in her body tensing.

She straightened again, and her eyes snapped open.

_ “How did we get here? _

_ Well, I used to know you so well. _

_ How did we get here? _

_ Well, I think I know. _ ”

Sylvain’s fingers flew over his guitar, pressing tight and furious against the strings. The beat thundered in her ears, as Ingrid’s wrists flicked and snapped, her sticks pounding against the drums. The music reached a fever pitch, growing faster and louder before, with a sudden, violent blow, the instruments fading into nothing, leaving only Annette, her voice, and the crowd watching in rapt attention.

The bridge dragged out of Annette; slow, soft, and heavy. It felt intimate; scandalous, even. The ghost of the chorus faded into the background.

_ “Do you see what we've done? _

_ We've gone and made such fools of ourselves _

_ Do you see what we've done? _

_ We've gone and made such fools of ourselves” _

The silence lingered. The room was humming with frantic energy, but Annette had left her body a long time ago and was only dimly aware of the presence of the crowd. 

She paused, breathlessly, before the guitar picked back up and the crowd erupted into a wall of sound.

_ “How did we get here? _

_ Well, I used to know you so well, yeah, yeah _

_ How did we get here? _

_ Well, I used to know you so well” _

The final chorus wrapped around her like armor. It caressed her skin and traced her outstretched hands, dancing between her fingers and extending from her grasp into the darkness. Annette knew music could do these things, but she’d never thought — no, never  _ hoped  _ — that her voice would even come close to that kind of power. 

The song climaxed in a coda.

_ “I think I know _

_ I think I know _

_ Ooh, there is something _

_ I see in you _

_ It might kill me _

_ I want it to be true” _

Felix played a final chord, and the crowd erupted into cheers. Annette was suddenly, viscerally dragged back into her body, her trembling hands, her messy hair. She could think again, and it felt disorienting. What had just  _ happened?  _

Behind her, the rest of the band appeared unmoved. Dimitri reached down to change from keys to rhythm guitar, while Ingrid adjusted something on her drumset — Annette could only see Ingrid in her peripheral vision, but it wasn't like she understood drums enough to label the parts of a drum kit even if she’d been looking head-on.

“Hey, everyone,” Dimitri spoke into a microphone. His voice sounded distant and muddled through the speakers. “Thanks for being here tonight. We’ve been Boar Prince, and we’re gonna play a few songs for you.”

Before Annette had a chance to process anything, Felix stepped forward, trading places with Sylvain. His fingers were poised on the strings, and he waited for Annette to signal she was ready for them to play.

Annette glanced over her shoulder to look at him. A few strands of hair had come loose from his ponytail as he’d played. With his free hand, he brushed them aside.

Annette gave him a quick nod, biting her lower lip as she turned around once again to face the crowd. The opening bassline of “White Rabbit” began to play.

_____

The crisp evening air was a welcome change from the cramped humidity of backstage post-show. While the rest of the band packed up their instruments, packing guitars into bags, keyboards into cases, and wheeling away the heavier items, Annette had wandered away. She’d offered to help, but there hadn’t been much to help with, and in the end, she’d pushed open a side door and stepped out into the night.

She’d barely made it to the curb when she heard a voice call, “ _ Annette _ ,” from the parking lot. Annette had just enough time to turn before Mercedes, in a blur of motion, ran to her side and engulfed her in a hug.

“You were  _ incredible! _ ” Mercedes exclaimed. Her oversized army jacket smelled like burnt coffee, baking powder, and cleaning spray, which meant she’d just come from a shift at the diner. 

“Really? You think so?” Annette asked, her voice muffled against Mercedes’s chest. “Could you tell from the audience that I was shaking the whole time? Please say you couldn’t.”

“Not in the slightest.” Mercedes pulled back from the hug, her eyes wet. “I’m so proud of you. It’s about  _ time _ the rest of the world realized how talented you are.”

“It’s just a battle of the bands,” Annette protested modestly. “We’re in like, a  _ gym. _ There’s like, ten bands playing tonight and another ten playing tomorrow, and anyone who wants to can sign up. And it’s not like it’s hard competition, either, even to make it to semifinals. Felix said something about musical blenders —”

“Felix?” Mercedes asked, as if  _ Felix  _ had been the strangest part of that sentence.

“Yeah, you know,” said Annette. “The guy on bass? Dark hair, wears it in a ponytail most of the time, always looks a little angry? The one I bullied into liking musicals?”

“Oh, now I remember,” Mercedes said. “He’s the one who gave you a ride home when I was stuck in traffic a long time ago.” She looked thoughtful in a way that made Annette feel uneasy, but Mercedes only said, “How long has he been playing? He’s good.”

“A while.” Annette thought for a moment. “Years, definitely. I mean, everyone’s been playing for a really long time, but he’s the longest, I think? Definitely since middle school. Honestly, maybe even elementary school.”

“Do they let elementary schoolers handle electric bass guitars?” Mercedes asked. “That sounds expensive and impractical. Also, very dangerous.”

“Okay, so probably  _ not  _ elementary school,” Annette amended. “But really, I don’t know. It’s weird, right? That I don’t know something so… small?”

Mercedes made a humming noise in the back of her throat. “Not exactly. From how you’ve described him, he sounds like someone who just likes to keep to himself.”

“That’s the understatement of the century,” grumbled Annette. “Asking a question with more emotional depth than ‘hey, what’d you have for lunch yesterday?’ and it’s like he’s worried he’ll blow his cover as a Soviet spy.” She stuffed her hands into her coat pockets. “If there’s one thing a girl loves, it’s feeling like an interrogator every time she asks a question.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Mercedes shook her head. “He’s just a little prickly.”

“A little prickly— are we talking about Felix?” asked Sylvain, appearing from nowhere with his guitar case slung across his back. 

“Or a cactus,” said Annette, wondering how much of their conversation Sylvain had heard. Mercedes stood there awkwardly, and it took Annette a moment to realize that she didn’t know how much, if anything, Mercedes and Sylvain knew about each other. Had they even been introduced?

“Oh! God, sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Mercedes,  _ Sylvain _ . He plays guitar for the band. Sylvain,  _ Mercedes _ . Also known as my best friend.”

Mercedes extended her hand. “Nice to officially meet you. I’ve heard great things.”

“Likewise,” said Sylvain, shaking her hand. He hadn’t let go when he frowned, and added, “You look familiar. You work at the diner, right?”

Mercedes beamed. “I do! I’m surprised you remember that. Most people don’t pay very much attention to waitstaff.”

“Hey, I never forget a pretty face,” said Sylvain, who was still holding her hand longer than was, strictly speaking, necessary.

Annette cleared her throat. Sylvain let go of Mercedes’s hand. “So, anyway,” he said to Annette, “I hate to drag you away, but we’re having a post-jam debrief about scores and shit. Dimitri’s idea.” He shrugged. “Everyone else is heading out to the other lot, but we can just cut through the building.”

“Yeah, of course. Just a sec.” Annette turned to look at Mercedes. “It’s super late, so you don’t have to wait for me. I can just get a ride from someone else.”

“Are you sure?” Mercedes asked. “I promised I’d drive you home. I’m happy to wait.” Her voice was light, easy, but Annette sensed the exhaustion lurking underneath it. Judging by the state of her clothes, Mercedes had come immediately from a long shift at work and, miraculously, had still chosen to sit on a folding chair in a small room for hours for Annette. Asking Mercedes for one more favor felt downright cruel.

Annette wrapped her arms around her friend. “You go home. Get some sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” Mercedes sounded reluctant. “Text me the instant you’re home. I want to know you got home safe.”

Annette pulled back from the hug and nodded. “Of course.”

With a final wave to Mercedes, she followed Sylvain back into the Adrestia through the side door.

The two of them walked through the backstage area, tiptoeing around the last band of the night, who were running through their last-minute adjustments, and through the offstage wings, which were long-since abandoned. The wings spat them out into a long, empty hallway, silent except for the faint clicking of Annette’s boots on the tile. Without the background noise of musicians, instruments, and the crowd, it felt positively eerie.

As they passed a shuttered concession stand, Annette asked, “So, what’s this meeting thing about, anyway?”

“Nothin’ to worry about,” said Sylvain, his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “Dimitri just likes to give notes. Not that it matters at this point, but we humor him.”

“Notes?”

“Yeah. Just quick ones,” said Sylvain. “I came in too early, or too flat, or he thinks he was too loud, or something.”

Annette shook her head. “No, I know what notes are. I meant, what do you mean, they don’t matter at this point?”

They rounded a corner and were plunged into a dark hallway illuminated only by the faint glow of the EXIT sign and the blue light of a row of vending machines. In the distance, Annette heard voices. She wondered if they were approaching the parking lot, or if they’d just walked in a circle and had ended up on the other side of the audience. 

“There’s ten other bands tomorrow,” Sylvain clarified. “So it’s not like the notes help us get a leg up on the competition. We pick a god and pray.”

Annette frowned. “But, wait, I thought basically everyone makes it to semifinals.”

“What?” Sylvain stopped walking. “Who told you that?”

Annette felt suddenly like she’d said something she shouldn’t have, but she couldn’t figure out why. “Um, Felix. Right before we went on. I was freaking out about — well, actually, it doesn’t matter. Why? Is that—  _ not _ how it happens?”

“He said that? Huh.” Sylvain had a strange expression on his face. Before Annette could ask what he meant, he just shrugged and started walking again. “Nah, you’re right. I just meant we can’t check out the other bands tomorrow. You know, they start at eight, Hilda’s party starts at nine.”

Inwardly, Annette groaned. Amidst rehearsals, she’d completely forgotten to pick up a Halloween costume. Mentally, she ran through a list of what she could pull together from her closet: a  _ character from a John Hughes movie; Anne Shirley; a different character from a different John Hughes movie… _

“We pregame at Felix’s,” Sylvain added, interrupting her reverie. “Dimitri brings chips. You don’t have to drink or anything”

Pregaming sober with four tipsy childhood best friends sounded like Annette’s personal hell. On the other hand, the last time Annette had gotten drunk, she’d wound up singing karaoke and vomited on a near stranger’s driveway. Both options sounded terrible. “Um, I’ll just meet you guys at Hilda’s, if that’s okay.”

“Sure. No pressure.” Sylvain reached in front of Annette to push open the exit door to the parking lot. He waited for her to walk through before he followed, letting the door behind them close by itself. The two of them began to walk through the employee lot, where the members of the band with cars had all parked. At the edge of the lot, sitting at a picnic table in the designated smoking area, Annette could just barely make out Dimitri, Felix, and Ingrid.

“We find out results on Sunday,” Sylvain offered, answering the question she hadn’t asked but must have, apparently, been written all over her face. “They send out an email, but I never read it. Dimitri dumbs it down enough that I don’t have to.”

“Wait,” Annette frowned. “I thought you just said results don’t matter. Why do you look? I mean, beyond just, ‘did we make it’?”

“Eh. It’s an ego thing, basically.” Sylvain shrugged, causing the strap of his guitar case to ripple. The case bounced gently against his back. “Sure, it might not  _ matter,  _ but it sure feels good knowing that you’d be fine if it did.”

“I guess that makes sense,’ Annette allowed, but she wasn’t completely convinced. She wondered if Sylvain was lying to her about something, and then immediately questioned her own sanity because what on earth would he have to lie to her about? Rankings? For a battle of the bands? A high school invitational battle of the bands that they’d spent a month rehearsing for?  _ Way to make absolutely  _ **_everything_ ** _ about yourself, Annette. _

“Hey, listen,” Sylvain said. Annette looked over at him. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. First of all, because this is just a practice run for February, but more importantly, because, in case no one’s told you yet, you fucking  _ rocked  _ out there. Anyone who hears you and doesn’t immediately give us first doesn’t know shit about music.”

“First? That’s ambitious,” said Annette. “What about, like, sixth? Or seventh?”

Sylvain scoffed. “Hey, don’t sell yourself short. First or nothing.”

Annette smiled at him. “Let’s just compromise and say somewhere in the middle,” she said, as the two of them reached the picnic table in time to hear Dimitri launch into a tirade about gymnasium acoustics.

_____

Like many of Annette’s classmates, Hilda had an obscenely large house. It wasn’t quite on the same level as Claude’s, which should probably be called a  _ palace _ , or at least a mansion, but it was still significantly larger than what Annette was used to. When Ashe had left to get them drinks, Annette had joked, “don’t get lost on your way to the kitchen,” which seemed less funny now that he’d been gone for nearly ten minutes.

Alone, she surveyed the room. Pumpkin-shaped string lights clung to the crown molding, while fake cobwebs “grew” in the corners. Jack-o-Lanterns with LED candles accentuated side tables and bookshelves, while fake plastic bats dangled on strings from the ceiling. A dry-ice fog machine gave the room an eerie atmosphere, which was lessened slightly by the cheesy Halloween playlist coming through Hilda’s speakers, currently playing a cover of “I Put A Spell On You.”

As expected, the costumes ran the gamut from “forgot this was a costume party” to “prepares for Halloween for an entire year.” Across the room, trying to fit as many marshmallows in his mouth as possible, Caspar was dressed as He-Man; counting the marshmallows (and also making sure he didn’t choke) was Linhardt, wearing a long black robe and deep purple eye makeup (likely some obscure monster reference Annette didn’t understand.) Dancing reluctantly with Hilda was Marianne, dressed as a witch; Hilda, her hair in two long ponytails, was some kind of vampire, which Annette only realized once Hilda smiled, revealing a set of pearly-white fangs.

She hadn’t seen any of the band yet, but she knew from Dorothea that Sylvain was one-half of a Romeo + Juliet couples costume. Dorothea was the other half. 

“Isn’t it a little weird to do a couples costume with your ex?” Annette had asked when she’d learned this, but Dorothea had only shrugged.

“Ferdie’s out of town for an audition, and Sylvain’s the only other one who’ll put up with my theatrics. What was I supposed to do, let a good costume go to waste?”

The reasoning still didn’t make sense to Annette, but then, she supposed, she wasn’t a theater kid. They followed a strange logic that was entirely their own.

As if on cue, she suddenly spotted Dorothea by the air hockey table, her tell-tale angel wings standing out amidst a sea of monsters and superheroes. Like Annette, she was alone, and seemed to be waiting for someone. Annette started to cross the room to join her, only to make it all of five steps before she noticed Ingrid and stopped in her tracks. 

Ingrid was dressed as Spider-Gwen, but given Ingrid’s love of superheroes (something she shared with Ashe and Dimitri), that wasn’t the strangest thing. What  _ was  _ surprising was the way she walked towards Dorothea carrying one cup of punch in each hand, apparently returning from the kitchen with drinks for two.

Annette watched as Ingrid, giving a little half-bow, presented Dorothea with one of the cups. It was an awkward, almost chivalric gesture, and while Dorothea laughed, it didn’t seem mean-spirited. She took the cup from Ingrid’s hand. Annette was too far away to hear Dorothea’s response, but close enough to notice the way Ingrid flushed, her face turning a bright shade of crimson.

Annette suddenly felt like she was watching something intimate. She turned away suddenly, so suddenly that she didn’t notice the person who’d snuck up behind her until his face was inches from hers and she let out a startled gasp.

In stark contrast to the rest of the room, aside from a plastic sword attached to his belt, Felix was wearing what he typically wore to weekend band practices. “Really? I didn’t even say ‘Boo,” he said.

_ “ Haha _ _,_ very funny,” Annette enunciated, crossing her arms over her chest. “Mister I’m-too-cool-for-a-costume expects me to believe he has Halloween spirit.”

“I have a costume,” Felix said evenly.

Annette scoffed. “What? No, you don’t. Unless this is some kind of mind game, where you just go around in normal clothes and act like everyone else is way too uncultured to get the reference, which is a jerk move, by the way, you don’t have a costume.”

The corner of Felix’s lips twitched. “Since when is a plastic sword ‘normal clothes’?”

“Well. Except for the sword,” Annette allowed. She studied the faint outline of a car imprinted on his white tee-shirt, hoping for a clue, but found nothing. “Are you a video game character or something? Or a pun? Or, like, a vine reference? Give me a hint.”

“I have a sword,” Felix said slowly. 

“So your costume is… you’re a guy with a sword?” Annette’s brow furrowed. “Just, in general? That’s it?”

“What more do you want?” asked Felix.

Annette blinked. “Okay, well, any specific  _ sword _ ?” 

“Sure,” said Felix. His hand rested lightly on the cheap plastic. “The one I have right here.”

Annette let out an exasperated sigh. “Okay,  _ fine,  _ Mister Guy-with-sword. I surrender. Your references are so obscure and I’m a mere mortal who can’t possibly hope to ‘get’ them.”

“I’m not fucking with you. I’m literally just a guy with a sword,” Felix argued. “What, were you expecting me to say ‘Excalibur’ or something? That’s Ingrid’s thing.”

Annette raised her eyebrows. “Clearly not exclusively her thing, if you remembered it just like that. Are you secretly a closet fantasy geek? Because Mercedes hates really long movies, and I’ve been itching for a _Lord of the Rings_ rewatch—”

“A rewatch?” Felix interrupted. “What, implying you’ve seen them?”

“Of course.” Annette bristled. “It’s  _ Lord of the Rings.  _ They made, like, a billion dollars at the box office. I’m not a  _ Martian. _ Haven’t you?”

Defying her expectations, Felix shrugged. “I know enough to get the references,” he admitted, with what almost seemed like forced casualness. “One ring, Gandalf, elves, all that.”

Annette’s jaw dropped. “Wait, hang on, I was kidding about the secret fantasy geek thing. You’re not  _ actually  _ a fan of this stuff, are you?” Her eyes lit up. “Is that sword from some Frodo cosplay in the back of your closet? It is, isn’t it? Or, wait, are you more of an Aragorn guy?”

“Sure, make fun of the sword all you want. At least it’s  _ something _ . What are you even supposed to be?” Felix asked. Beneath the orange glow of the pumpkin string lights, it almost looked like he was blushing.

“Claire Standish,” said Annette, instinctively following his gaze down to her costume, which consisted of a white ascot, pink shirt, and a brown calf-length skirt, all of which she’d found in her closet earlier in the day. It wasn’t a perfect replica, but Annette felt it worked well enough. 

Or, at least, she thought it had before looked back up at Felix, who was staring at her blankly. “Molly Ringwald?” She prompted. “You know,  _ The Breakfast Club _ ? John Hughes? Eighties movie classic?” 

Felix was still looking at Annette like she’d sprouted a second head. She wondered for a second if her costume was a stupid idea (who even watched eighties movies anymore?), but all Felix said was, “You expected me to get all that out of a shirt and a skirt?” 

“At least I’m something recognizable. Those are some bold words from someone whose costume is literally just ‘myself: sword edition,’” countered Annette. She was expecting some kind of witty comeback, but instead, Felix laughed. 

Annette wanted to bottle the sound of Felix’s laugh, which was a rich, full sound that she didn’t think she’d heard before. Something blossomed in Annette’s chest and spread throughout the length of her entire body. 

She wasn’t sure what had been so funny about this particular comment, but she was gripped with the sudden, burning desire to dissect it and study it in a lab, distilling it to its purest elements, in order to understand and replicate it in the future. Was there science for that? There had to be, right?

Ashe took that moment to return from the kitchen with drinks. “Here’s your punch,” he said, handing Annette a plastic cup. “Sorry it took so long. Someone mixed up the dry ice with the freezer ice, so we all had to wait for a fresh, non-burning batch.”

“That was nice of you,” Annette beamed. “Avoiding serious burns from punch is always a priority of mine.” She took a sip of the punch before she turned back to Felix. “Felix, you’ve met Ashe, right?”

For whatever reason, this made Felix’s jaw tighten. “Yeah,” he said coolly. “Nice Spider-Man costume.”

It was unclear to Annette whether he meant this as a compliment, insult, or something in-between. His expression was unreadable, but it had certainly darkened. Baffled, Annette gave him a pointed look, intended to wordlessly communicate:  _ be nice, dickhead, he’s my friend,  _ which Felix ignored.

Ashe was oblivious to the furious nonverbal communication happening in front of him. “Oh, thanks!” He said cheerfully. “I added a few things to make it more accurate to the comics, since I’m technically Peter Parker, not Spider-Man, and, y’know, there are a lot of different variations on the suit.”

“Fascinating,” said Felix dryly. Something in his tone struck Annette as strange. Did Felix and Ashe have some kind of secret history she didn’t know about? No, she decided, that would be ridiculous; this was  _ Ashe.  _ Ashe liked everyone. So what could it be?

Desperate for a distraction, Annette’s mind settled on Ashe’s costume. “I think it is,” she said firmly. “Don’t be so modest. You made a lot of adjustments, right? That’s a ton of effort.”

Ashe made a “so-so” gesture with his free hand. “Kind of. The suit’s from Party City, but the webbing was all wrong, so I made a few modifications. It wasn’t hard, and Dedue helped with all the design stuff. And there weren't a lot of adjustments. Just a few.”

Annette had only met Dedue a handful of times during his exchange year at Garegg Mach. Most of her interactions with him had taken the form of a brief text or a short cameo in either Ashe or Mercedes’ frequent video calls. All the same, acutely aware of Felix’s stony presence next to her, Annette tried her hand at a clumsy introduction. “Felix, you know Dedue, right?”

Felix’s posture was guarded. “Yeah. He stayed with Dimitri’s family last year. How do  _ you _ know him?” 

The question was directed at Ashe, who smiled sweetly. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“And they’re disgustingly cute together,” Annette added. “It’s not just  _ anyone _ who’ll pick up a Facetime call at four in the morning.”

“I forgot about timezones,” said Ashe sheepishly. “But also, France does Daylight Savings early, so the difference was off—”

“What, by an hour?” said Felix. He still looked wary, but less intensely than before. A rainshower instead of a hurricane. “Does that really make a difference?”

“Not exactly,” Ashe admitted. “But I felt a little less bad about it.”

“So, Dedue helped with the design things,” Annette prompted, taking another sip of her radioactive-looking Halloween punch.

“Just a few details. You know, color schemes, things like that,” Ashe clarified. “I went a little overboard, but it was fun, so,” he trailed off, shrugging.

Annette’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that reminds me. Have you seen Ingrid yet? She’s also a spider — um, person. Gwen, I think? The one with the white and pink suit.”

“Whoa, really?” said Ashe. “That’s awesome! Spider-Gwen’s so underrated. I didn’t know Ingrid liked superheroes.” He took a sip of his punch. “D’you know if she made the costume herself?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Annette. “But I saw her by the air hockey table a little bit ago, if you wanna go look for her?”

“Cool, thanks!” Ashe beamed. “I will.” He turned to Felix. “Nice running into you. I’ll see you around?”

“Sure,” Felix conceded. He didn’t look happy, exactly, but he didn’t look like he wanted Ashe’s head on a pike, either, which was progress.

Annette waited until Ashe was out of earshot before she whipped around to glare at Felix. “Why don’t you like Ashe?”

Felix’s eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“How was that a complicated sentence?” Annette huffed. “Did he frame you for murder? Burn down your house? Cut your shares at a company you both co-founded?”

Felix didn’t back down. “That last one’s just the plot of  _ The Social Network.  _ You watch too many movies.”

“You’re still not answering my question.” Annette took another sip of her punch. “You were being really nice until Ashe came over, and then, wham, bam, thank you ma’am, you turn into Mr. Hyde. What happened?”

“Another reference,” said Felix. “But at least that one was Halloween-appropriate. Points for effort.”

Annette let out a strangled sound of frustration. “I just don’t understand you, you know? You’re a nice person, and then all of a sudden, you’re not. Ashe is the sweetest person alive, so there has to be some reason you’re a jerk to him, and I wanna know what it is.”

One corner of Felix’s mouth tilted up. “That’s a big leap from ‘Ashe is a nice person’ to ‘he must’ve done something to piss you off.’ Maybe I just don’t like him.”

“No,” Annette said. “No, that’s not it. People who genuinely don’t like people don’t spend as much time on this misanthrope schtick as you do. You talk about ‘I don’t like this’ and ‘I don’t like that’ so much it’s like…” She swallowed. A thought occurred to her. “You know, it’s almost like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

Felix’s expression was guarded. “Interesting observation.” For a moment, Annette wondered if she’d struck a nerve. The moment passed when Felix added, “Follow-up question: did you eat one of Claude’s ‘festive Halloween brownies’ earlier?” 

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Annette snapped. “No, I did not eat a  _ weed brownie. _ You’re being ridiculous.” With a slight flounce in her step, she turned on her heel and started for the kitchen. “I’m getting more punch.”

The mass of bodies, the dry-ice fog machine, and the thumping bass of the speakers meant that, if Felix was following her, Annette couldn’t immediately tell. She hadn’t been lying to him (she had, actually, finished her glass of punch at some point in the conversation), but more than that, she needed air. Something in the room had started to feel downright claustrophobic, but Annette couldn’t figure out why.

Annette liked to think she could read people well. It was less of a talent than a hobby, but she thought she was good enough, all the same. Felix, however, challenged every single assumption she had. The obvious explanation was that she wasn’t as good at reading people as she’d thought, but something about that didn’t quite fit. Felix was an enigma. Annette normally liked enigmas, if only to examine them and find out what made them tick. But here, now, she just found herself grinding her teeth in frustration. 

On her way to the kitchen, she passed Sylvain, dressed as Romeo in a suit of armor. He wasn’t, as Annette would’ve expected, surrounded by an admiring group of underclassmen (although several freshmen girls, and quite a few boys, were casting longing looks in his direction.) Instead, Sylvain was sprawled across Hilda’s couch, drink in hand, talking animatedly to Dimitri.

“—fuck Britta, obviously,” Sylvain was saying. He cut himself short when he saw Annette. “Hey! Look who it is! Come join us, princess, we’re playing fuck, marry, kill.”

“Princess?” Annette asked, settling herself in between the two of them on the couch. Dimitri, dressed as a pirate, gave her a lazy grin. His cheeks were flushed a bright pink, which gave Annette a flash of panic. It was hard enough navigating with an eye patch; it seemed downright dangerous to add drunk vision on top of that.

“Yeah,” said Sylvain. “Your costume. You’re the princess, right?”

It took Annette a moment to remember. “Oh, you mean  _ Breakfast Club _ ,” she said. “Sorry, it’s just that nobody’s guessed what I’m supposed to be all night, so  _ I’ve _ almost forgotten what I’m dressed as.”

Sylvain clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “People are scrubs. It’s a classic.” He turned his attention back to Dimitri. “Was I on marry or kill?”

“Kill, I think,” said Dimitri. “Or, marry? Fuck,” he laughed, which turned into a hiccup halfway through. “I can’t remember.”

Annette cast a concerned glance at Sylvain, who didn’t appear bothered. This eased her somewhat, and she relaxed on the couch, still holding her empty plastic punch cup. 

“Eh, let’s just start a new round,” said Sylvain. “Okay, Annette, fuck, marry, kill: Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Princess Leia.”

Annette thought for a moment. “Okay, hmm, tough question—because it’s like, is this about me? Or is this more about space politics? Because killing a princess, that’s a serious diplomatic error. That could start a war or something.”

“Quit stalling and answer the damn question,” said Sylvain.

“Alright, alright,” Annette said. “I think I know. So I’d pick: marry Princess Leia, because that’d make me a princess too, right? I think it does. Or, at least, it should. And then, f- screw Han Solo, because who wouldn’t? Young Harrison Ford?  _ Swoon.  _ So then I guess that means I kill Luke Skywalker, but just by default. Sorry, Luke.”

“Good choices,” said Sylvain approvingly. “Dimitri? What’re your picks?”

“Flip-flop Leia and Luke,” said Dimitri. “Fuck Han, marry Luke, kill Leia. Easiest Fuck Marry Kill  _ ever. _ ” He took a sip of his beer and grimaced. “Beer’s gross. Why’d they make beer so gross?”

Sylvain reached over and deftly snatched the can out of Dimitri’s hand. “Alright, pal, I think you’ve had enough.” He turned back to Annette. “It’s your turn.”

“Hmm.” Annette scanned the room, hoping a costume or two would give her inspiration. Her eyes landed on a junior girl dressed as Wonder Woman, and an idea came to her in a flash.

“Okay, so how about, screw, marry, kill: Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman.”

“Fuck Wonder Woman and her kinky little lasso,” said Sylvain. “Kill Batman. No real reason. I just don’t like the guy. And besides, killing Superman’s impossible unless you have some of that, what’s it called—”

“Oh, come on,” groaned Annette. “Seriously?  _ Kryptonite _ .”

Sylvain opened his mouth to speak but didn’t get any further, as Annette, who’d placed her punch cup on the ground between her feet, moved slightly and ended up tipping it over. Her cup was empty, but just full enough to carry the momentum to tip over Sylvain’s cup, which was also on the floor. The game came to an abrupt end as Hilda’s Halloween punch started to soak into her plush carpet.

“Oh no!” Annette clapped a hand over her mouth in shock. “I’m such a klutz, I’m so sorry, I’ll go get some paper towels—”

Sylvain, who was already getting to his feet, shook his head. “I’ll get ‘em. You stay here.” 

“Wait! You were in the middle of a game, and I kicked it over. I should—” Annette started, but Sylvain was already gone, taking two plastic cups and Dimitri’s half-full beer can with him.

Annette and Dimitri were left alone in the living room, which was, at this point in the night, mostly empty. In one corner, at the baby grand piano, sat a blonde Wednesday Addams, trailing her fingers lightly over the keys. In another, two sophomores Annette recognized from pottery club were sharing an armchair. Aside from those three, and a handful of strangers who flitted from room to room, Annette and Dimitri were alone.

“Annette?” murmured Dimitri. Annette looked over at him, which Dimitri took as an invitation to scoot closer to her on the couch. “Are we friends?”

“Of course we’re friends,” Annette said. “We’re in a band. Bandmates are friends.”

It wasn’t the right answer. Dimitri shook his head vehemently. His expression was pitiful. “No, no. not band friends. Real friends.”

“Of course we’re real friends,” Annette clarified. Across the room, she heard the blonde Wednesday Addams snort, but when Annette looked over at her, the girl gave no sign that she’d been listening, leaving Annette to wonder if she’d imagined it.

“Good,” said Dimitri. He snuggled closer to Annette, resting his head on her chest. The eyepatch had slipped away from its perch and was now dangling precariously from Dimitri’s forehead like a headband. Annette reached over and gently detangled the elastic, slipping the eyepatch into the pocket of her skirt for safekeeping.

“You’re the coolest,” Dimitri continued. His voice was muffled against Annette’s cotton t-shirt. “And you’re so nice. Why aren’t we friends?”

“I just said we are, silly,” said Annette. She reached down to brush away his bangs from his forehead, which seemed like the sort of thing you did in these situations. His hair was damp with sweat. “How much have you had to drink?”

“A little.” As if on cue, Dimitri hiccuped. “Annette, you smell really nice. And you’re so nice to me.”

“I smell nice?” This was news to Annette. “After a few hours at a house party? No way. You’re bluffing.”

“You  _ do, _ ” Dimitri protested. He was quiet for a moment, letting Annette continue to stroke his hair. She hadn’t realized she was humming quietly under her breath to fill the silence until Dimitri added, “I love you.”

Annette’s fingers froze. She wondered if she’d misheard him, and hoped she had. There was no easy way out of this, not with his head pressed to her chest and her heart thundering within it. Where was Sylvain with those  _ fucking  _ paper towels? 

Her eyes darted around the room wildly, but the sophomores in the armchair only had eyes for each other, and the blonde Wednesday Addams still had her back to the both of them. No luck.

“Um,” she said at last.

“You’re like a little sister. I wish you were my sister,” said Dimitri, and Annette was so relieved that she could’ve cried.

“We’re the same age,” she said. Relaxed, she started to stroke his hair again. “Off by a few months, but we’re in the same grade, so you know what I mean. And you already have a sister.” Out of the corner of her eye, Annette noticed blonde Wednesday Addams push herself back from the piano. “Well, stepsister, but, you know.”

Dimitri wasn’t impressed by this line of logic. “Yeah, but she sucks. She hates me.” His voice wavered. “I don’t know what I even did. She just hates me, Annette. Why does she hate me?”

Annette willed herself not to pry for details. This was about comforting her friend, not satisfying her own morbid curiosity. “She doesn’t hate you. Nobody hates you.”

“She hates me,” Dimitri muttered. His words were starting to slur together. “Ever since we were kids. I tried to be her friend. But she didn’t want to be friends. She just hated me.” 

Across the room, the blonde Wednesday Addams skulked across the hardwood floor. Her thick-heeled combat boots echoed with each step. She seemed suddenly desperate to put as much distance between herself and Dimitri as possible, which Annette supposed was fair, given that Dimitri was teetering on the edge of becoming a blubbering mess.

“Shh,” Annette soothed. “Nobody hates you,” She repeated. “I don’t hate you.”

“I hate  _ her _ .” Dimitri wailed plaintively.

At this, the blonde Wednesday Addams stopped. She was close enough that Annette could finally see her face, down to the purple lipstick and thick black eyeliner she wore with her costume. Dimitri, his face still pressed against Annette, saw nothing, but Annette recognized the figure in front of them and her heart sank.

Edelgard smiled wryly. It managed to communicate several ideas: that she’d heard everything; that she knew Dimitri was drunk; that she knew there was a grain of truth in everything he’d said; that she didn’t care; that she wouldn’t repeat it. It was a heavy, world-weary smile, too wise and tired for a seventeen-year-old. Annette found herself wondering what Edelgard could’ve possibly seen to make her look so beyond it all. 

With one last parting glance, Edelgard left. As she did, from the opposite direction, Sylvain bustled into the room with an entire roll of paper towels. “I’m back,” he said, bending down to mop up the spill. At this point, the punch had soaked into Hilda’s carpet, but Sylvain didn’t seem to care. Pressing a stack of towels into the carpet, he looked up at Dimitri, still curled up next to Annette, and mouthed, “What’s with him?”

“I have no idea,” Annette mouthed furiously, her eyes widening for emphasis.

Sylvain rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I’ll handle him,” he whispered, and then, audibly, said, “Hey, buddy? I’m gonna take over from Annette now.”

“No,” Dimitri murmured, leaning into Annette like a stubborn child. “Annette, don’t go.”

“I’m still here.” Annette gently detangled herself from Dimitri. Without the pressure of her body keeping him upright, he fell sideways onto the couch. “I’m just gonna go get some air, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

“Mmph,” Dimitri mumbled. He might’ve said something intelligible, but it was difficult for Annette to understand, considering his face was currently pressed into a couch cushion.

Sylvain, still kneeling beside the couch, reached up to pat Dimitri’s head. “There, there, pal. Sylvain’s gotcha.” He turned to Annette and said in a stage-whisper, “Go. Quick, before he notices you’re gone.”

Annette didn’t need to be told twice. As much as she liked Dimitri, spending the rest of the night babysitting didn’t sound like her idea of a good time. She flashed a grateful smile at Sylvain before she slipped out of the room and tiptoed down the hall. 

She passed the kitchen, where Leonie was shotgunning a White Claw before a crowd of cheering onlookers; the dining room, where Claude, Lorenz, and Lysithea were currently deeply invested in a game of Uno; the media room, where Raphael and Ignatz were going head-to-head in a game of Smash Bros on Hilda’s enormous flatscreen. At the top of the basement stairs, leading to the rec room, where most of the party guests were drinking and dancing, her hand stilled on the banister railing.

Did she really want to go back downstairs to a room full of dry-ice fog and cheesy Halloween hits? Maybe. She could; it was the easier option. She could go find Ashe, or Ingrid, or Dorothea, or any number of her friends in a cramped basement; listen to Ashe talk about Spider-Man, pretend not to notice the tension between Ingrid and Dorothea, pretend she wasn’t still thinking about Felix—

Oh, God. _ Felix.  _

Annette had been so distracted by Sylvain and Dimitri that she’d forgotten she’d told him she was getting another glass of punch. Did he think she was angry with him? Did he think she’d left without saying goodbye, or that something had happened, or—

Annette hurried down the stairs clumsily, tripping over her feet as she stumbled down the steps. In her haste, she nearly elbowed a junior dressed as Frankenstein in the ribs; he grumbled something unintelligible as Annette slid past him into the room. 

There was no sign of Felix, but Annette’s eyes landed on Ingrid, who was leaning against the wall with a can of cider in her hand. She crossed the room in a few steps, powered by a fatal combination of guilt and anxiety.

“Hey, Ingrid,” she called, once she was within earshot. Ingrid looked up, startled. “Have you seen Felix lately?”

“Why does everyone always assume I know where everyone is at all times?” Ingrid complained. “Do I really give off helicopter mom energy? I have a  _ life.  _ God.”

Annette felt like it was safest not to respond to that. “I just went upstairs to get a drink, but when I came back, he was gone,” she pleaded. “Did you see where he went?  _ Please _ .”

Ingrid softened. Reluctantly, if that was possible. “He went outside a little while ago,” she said, jerking her head towards the wide French Doors leading out onto the patio. “I’d check there first.”

“Outside?” Annette blanched. “It’s almost November.”

Ingrid shook her head. “Felix likes the cold. He’s a freak like that.”

Annette glanced down at her arms, which were bare both for costume accuracy’s sake and practical reasons (namely, that house parties were hot and humid, and Annette hadn’t bothered to bring a jacket.) With a resolute sigh, she turned on her heel, bracing herself for the chill as she headed for the French Doors.

“Wait!” Ingrid called after her. “Here, you can take my coat!”

But Annette wasn’t listening. She pulled open the doors to the patio, stepped out into the cold air, and let the doors close behind her with a click. Behind her, the noises of the party were muffled. The bass of the speakers thudded against the walls, but Annette could barely distinguish the melody. She took a few steps forward, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth.

It really was a beautiful night. Overhead, unobscured by any clouds, the moon shone clearly. The stars danced in the sky. Once, when Annette had been very young, she’d tried to memorize the most common constellations. As she stared up at the stars, a few of them came back to her: there was the Big Dipper; there was the Little Dipper. Or, as Annette preferred to call them, Big Bear and Little Bear.

It took her a moment to notice Felix at the edge of the patio. Hilda’s house was built on a hill, which meant that the basement was level with the pool, which was still, for some reason, filled and uncovered. Felix was settled into a wicker chair by the edge of the water. The wind blew across the pool, sending ripples across the surface. Felix watched them, and didn’t notice Annette until she’d taken a few steps closer.

“Hey,” she said. “Mind if I join you?”

Wordlessly, Felix nodded. Annette took the empty chair next to him. She cleared her throat, awkward. 

“So, um, I’m sorry,” she started, just as Felix began to say, “I want to apologize—”

“Wait,” said Annette. “What?”

“What?” Felix looked equally lost, which confused Annette, who assumed he’d be mad, or at least frustrated with her for abandoning him at a party. 

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment, before Annette broke the silence. “Um, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I went to get some punch, but then I just didn't come back for a long time. That was a jerk move and,” she looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry.”

_ “ You’re _ sorry? For  _ that _ ?” Annette looked up at Felix, who had a bewildered expression on his face. “You came outside, in the cold, to tell me you’re sorry for—”

“It’s not  _ that  _ cold,” Annette interrupted. Traitorously, her body betrayed her, and she shivered.

Felix shook his head and began to shrug off his jacket. “Don’t be stupid. Take this.”

Annette started to protest, but his expression stopped her from saying anything. Something in his hesitancy suggested she’d be doing  _ him  _ a favor by accepting a small kindness.

Annette couldn’t begin to understand why. Felix was absolutely baffling.

“Oh, okay. Thanks,” she said, accepting the jacket and wrapping it around her torso like a blanket. Like Felix, it had a heady, woodsy smell, something between pine trees and burning wood. Annette wondered if Felix wore cologne, or the scent just naturally emanated from his pores. It was one in a long line of mysteries she thought she’d never know the answers to.

“So. Um, a few questions,” Annette announced, drawing her knees to her chest. “I guess the most obvious one is, this is a party, and you’re out here in the dark by yourself.”

Felix gave her a pointed look. “That’s not a question.” 

In a fit of nervous energy, Annette stuck her tongue out at him. “Sure, fine. Stick-in-the-mud,” she said with a laugh. “ _ Why  _ are you out here all alone?”

“I’m not alone,” said Felix distantly. He was once again staring into the inky depths of the pool. “You’re with me,” he explained. “So, logically, I’m not alone.”

Annette swallowed. That answer seemed loaded in a way she didn’t feel equipped to unpack _.  _ “Okay, so, question two, I guess,” she said, desperate to bring some levity into the conversation. “Where’s the sword?”

It had the intended effect. Felix snorted. “Dorothea has it. Since when do you care about the sword? ”

“Of course I care about the sword,” Annette protested. “Your whole thing is ‘guy with a sword.’ Without the sword, you’re just some  _ guy.  _ That’s a  _ horrible  _ Halloween costume.”

Felix shook his head. “Unlike your getup, which is useless as a solo costume.”

“Useless? Sylvain got it on the first try!” Annette huffed. “And anyway, this was a last-minute thing. I was going to go to the costume store to get something good, but between rehearsals and the show last night, I just had no time. What’s your excuse?”

“Gee, I guess I just don’t have the Halloween spirit,” Felix deadpanned.

Annette rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. A quick glance at Felix revealed he was smiling too.

They fell into a comfortable silence. For a moment, the only sounds were the faint chirping of cicadas, the muffled music of the party, and the dull roar of cars in the cul-de-sac. 

“You were great last night,” Felix said suddenly. Annette, who’d let the silence lull her into a false sense of security, jolted upright. 

“Me? No. I’m just a rookie,” she stammered. She felt suddenly, exceptionally grateful that the low light on the patio meant Felix couldn’t see she was blushing. What kind of person fell apart at the first sign of a compliment? God, she was  _ useless.  _

“No, you’re really not,” said Felix. Annette was suddenly very interested in the stitching on the collar of his jacket. Her fingers played with the frayed line of thread at the hem. “You’re… you’re really talented.”

“You too,” said Annette, her face burning. “Seriously. Mercedes came up to me after the show and asked how long you’ve been playing, she was so impressed, and I said, I don’t know, but definitely a long time, maybe even elementary school. And then she said, Annette, that’s stupid, they don’t let elementary schoolers handle stuff like that.” She turned back to face him. “Uh, so, back to our question game, how long  _ have  _ you been playing?”

“You’ve forgotten already? I’m hurt.”

“Wait, you told me? I could’ve sworn you—?” Annette started, before she caught Felix’s expression, which lingered somewhere between indignant and smug, and realized, once again, he was messing with her. “Stop it! You’re so _mean,_ ” she cried. “You keep lying to me like that and it’s gonna get you in the end, you know. What if one day you tell me something crazy and I don’t believe you? Then you’ll be sorry.”

“Crazy?” said Felix. “What, crazier than suggesting you forgot a tiny detail of someone’s life story? That’s a low bar.”

Annette shook her head. “Not a tiny detail of  _ someone’s  _ story. A big detail from something important to my friend.”

Felix was still looking at her.

“Music matters to us,” Annette continued. “So, yeah, I might be a little scatter-brained, but I wouldn’t just— Why would I forget something like that?”

“I started when I was eleven,” Felix said abruptly. “That’s seven years in February.”

Seven years. Important, but less important than the other piece of information that Annette had gleaned from that answer: Felix’s birthday was in February. That felt important, somehow.

“Seven years,” she said. “See, was that so hard?”

“Do I get to ask any questions?” Felix asked.

“Keep playing and find out.”

_____

The results from invitationals were sent out at 4:59 PM the next day. Annette opened the email with trembling fingers. There’d been twenty bands, and out of twenty, according to the email, the top ten went on to compete at semifinals in February.  Felix, and Sylvain, had lied to her about placing, but Annette was too nervous to wonder why, or, honestly, even care. That was a problem for another time. For now, at this moment, it didn't matter. 

_Tenth. Okay. We can do this._ She repeated it to herself like a prayer:  _ All we need is tenth place. We can do tenth place. _

She scrolled down to the results until she found _B_ _ oar Prince. _

Annette stared at the email until her vision started to blur, smiling so fiercely that her cheeks started to ache.

They’d placed third. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alright, let’s see,” Glenn mused. Felix could almost see him ticking off items on his fingers. “Talked about invitationals, talked about Dad— oh, I know. How’s the new girl? My replacement.”
> 
> ‘You mean Annette?” Felix asked.
> 
> “Annette, huh?” Something in Glenn’s voice told Felix that Glenn was suddenly very interested in this conversation.
> 
> Felix’s cheeks burned. “What? Shut up. It’s not like that.”
> 
> “Sure it isn’t,” Glenn drawled. “Hey, I don’t blame you. Some new girl joins the band, and suddenly you’re placing in the top three at invitationals? Shit, I’d be a little starstruck too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor content warnings for mentions of drug addiction and some internalized biphobia. Both are very brief.

When the scores from invitationals came in on Sunday evening, Felix was out for a run. This was, ostensibly to take advantage of the afternoon sunlight, but practically speaking, for so he had an excuse to avoid the barrage of texts in the band groupchat from Ingrid and Dimitri asking about results.

Not that Felix felt nervous, or anything. Obviously. That’d just be stupid. It was invitationals; what did he have to be nervous about?

By the time he came home, breathing heavily and drenched in sweat, there were dozens of unread messages on his phone. It took Felix a lifetime of scrolling to reach the text from Ingrid containing a screenshot of the results. She’d captioned the photo: _holy shit you guys!!!!_

They’d competed in invitationals for three years and only ever placed fifth. This year, they’d somehow managed third. _Holy shit_ was right.

_____

On Monday morning, as Felix turned into the parking lot, it was early enough that the majority of the spots were still empty. It took him a moment to notice that, across the lot, Hilda Goneril was perched on the hood of her BMW, staring into a heart-shaped compact mirror and checking her lipstick. She looked up as he pulled into his spot and closed her mirror with a firm _click._ Apparently, Hilda hadn’t just been enjoying the early morning chill. She’d been waiting for him. (This thought gave Felix a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.)

“There you are!” said Hilda, hopping down from her car. “ _Finally_. Do you know how hard it is to lug this thing around? I’m exhausted.”

She gestured to a thin plastic sword, which was balancing precariously on the BMW. It took Felix a moment to recognize the object, and a moment longer before he realized it was the same one that he’d brought to Hilda’s party on Saturday. Felix wondered how Hilda had known it was his, but he didn’t ask. Instinct told him it was better not to ask questions he didn’t want the answers to.

“It’s a piece of plastic,” said Felix. “It weighs a few ounces and it’s made for toddlers. Also, ‘lug it around’? You drove here.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Hilda pouted. “It wasn’t just driving here. First I had to text everybody at the party and see who’d lost a sword, and then I had to wait for everybody to reply, and _then_ I had to remember to pack it when I got up, _and_ I had to leave early so I could get here before you did so I could make sure you got it and I wouldn’t have to do it all again tomorrow. That’s a lot of work!’

Felix exhaled sharply. “If it’s that much work, why bring it when you could just throw it away?”

Hilda wrinkled her nose. “Adding more trash to a landfill for no reason is super gross. Don’t you know about climate change? That stuff’s destroying our planet, Felix. It’s seriously messed up.” 

“So then keep the sword. Add it to the decor. Hang it above the fucking fireplace,” said Felix, who was mildly bewildered by the idea that Hilda has just asked if he knew what _climate change_ was. 

“Plastic swords are horrible accent pieces,” said Hilda with a sniff. “They don’t match anything. Can you imagine this in my bedroom? It’d ruin the feng shui. Like, there are _levels,_ you know? Stuff like this is too tacky for everyday use, but it’s not tacky enough to make a statement about how tacky you’re being. Like, in a campy way. You get it?”

Felix had no idea what she was talking about, but then again, he rarely did. “Thanks,” he said flatly, reaching past Hilda to take the sword in an attempt to signal that their conversation was over

Hilda ignored the nonverbal cues. “But ooh, also, since I’m already here, and just did you this huge favor, when I really didn’t have to, and all,” she said, looking up at Felix and batting her eyelashes, “Could you do an eensy-teensy little thing for me? It’s so tiny, you won’t even notice it.”

Somewhat impressed at Hilda’s ability to lay a trap with so much subtlety that he didn’t notice until it was too late, Felix let out a long, exasperated sigh. “What is it?”

Hilda gave him a brilliant smile. “You’re my hero,” she said. “It’s so tiny, I swear, you won’t even notice.” She walked around to the passenger side of her car, unlocked the door, and rummaged within her enormous SUV. 

Felix took advantage of the lull in conversation to toss the plastic sword in the trunk of his Volvo. When he turned back around, Hilda had emerged from the car with two plastic trays of pink-frosted cupcakes. 

“It's for Spanish. I know, _ugh,_ ” she said, holding out the trays to Felix. “It took me forever to bake these, and then I had to frost them and everything.”

Felix looked at the trays warily, wondering when baking had replaced writing as one of the major skillsets for language classes. “Why did you bake cupcakes for Spanish?”

“We’re learning food words,” Hilda said cheerily, setting the trays in Felix’s arms before he had a chance to react. “You know, la leche, el azúcar, los huevos—” She frowned thoughtfully. “Or is it _las_ huevos?” Hilda shook her head, and added decisively, “No, it’s definitely _los_ huevos.”

Felix stared at her. “You don’t know?”

Hilda waved him off. “I’ll figure it out. Come on! It’s in the language wing. That’s all the way across the school, and I’m not running in these shoes.” She turned decisively on her heel, leaving Felix to stare dumbly at her retreating form before he cursed under his breath and followed at her heels with the cupcakes.

“You guys were cute on Friday, but I have a few thoughts for your look,” Hilda said, once Felix had caught up and was once again in earshot. “Ingrid was serving riot girl realness, and we love that, but everyone else? Did you even _try_ to put together an outfit that worked?”

Felix’s brow furrowed. “We’re a band, not—fucking supermodels,” he said. A moment later, he realized the implications of her sentence. “What, you were there? Who invited you?”

“Me and Claude went,” Hilda explained. “It was fun. Some of the bands, though— it’s like, the 2000s called, they want their clothes back.” They’d reached the front door of the school, and Hilda pressed the accessible door switch with her hip. The door swung open slowly, but not slowly enough that Felix didn’t have to scramble through the entrance with the trays of cupcakes to keep pace with Hilda.

“So, like I was saying,” said Hilda. “Ingrid was perfect, but you guys were all over the place. Dimitri was all eighties geek-chic with that little popped collar, but Sylvain was Leo DiCaprio before he got doughy, and meanwhile you’re up there _growling_ or something, but not even in like, a cool emo way. Total aesthetic confusion. You might’ve won this thing if you figured this stuff out.”

“Again. Band, not supermodels.” Felix said. “You expect me to believe the thing that kept us from first was our _fashion_?”

He was being sarcastic, but Hilda gave him a sympathetic look. “Exactly. And then there’s Annette, who’s cute and all, but that sparkly top she was wearing? _So_ grade-school. I have some ideas.” 

Felix didn’t like the direction this conversation was heading in.

“Lead singers are eye-candy, right? Everyone’s looking at them, and you want them to look _good._ I’m thinking crop tops, platform boots, eyeliner, messy hair. You know, something sexy—”

Felix had a sudden, visceral mental image of Annette wearing what Hilda was describing. Half of him found it hysterical to imagine Annette, who brought a baked good or three to every single band practice, going full Debbie Harry; the other half, the _dangerous_ half, found the idea a little _too_ appealing.

Felix was suddenly very aware of the blood roaring in his ears.

“I hope you’re taking notes,” Hilda continued. “This is good stuff. Some of my best.”

“What, are you our stylist now?” Felix asked. He wanted—needed—to get that image out of his head. “We pay an entry fee for this shit, so fuck off if you’re expecting someone to pay you for your service.”

“I’m just doing this out of the goodness of my heart,” Hilda chirped. 

Something about that phrasing felt oddly familiar to Felix. Someone else, in the recent past, had also told him something in connection to his band using those exact words. The memory flitted at the edge of his mind; he struggled, but in the end, it disappeared into the ether. Who had told him that? He couldn’t remember and that bothered him.

Felix took out his frustration on Hilda. “Really. _You_ ?” he asked. Wordlessly, he gestured to the tray of cupcakes in his arms, as if to say: _you brought me a plastic sword and in exchange you made me carry your Spanish project._

“Okay, fine,” Hilda grumbled. “I owe a favor to someone, and h—they wanted me to repay it by helping you out. I have a whole big list of ideas back at my house and everything.”

“That’s some fucked up logic,” said Felix. “You owe someone a favor and they make you repay it by giving us fashion advice? How does that make any sense?”

Hilda shrugged, apparently already bored with the conversation. She started to prattle on about colors and fabrics, but Felix wasn’t listening. 

His mind raced as he began to puzzle out the mystery of their anonymous benefactor, who apparently thought their _clothing_ was what had held them back from first, and enlisted Hilda to remedy that. It had to be someone who shared Hilda’s attention to style, who knew Hilda well enough to be owed favors, _and_ who had a vested interest in making sure Boar Prince did well at competitions. Most importantly, this person, whoever they were, _really_ wanted their meddling to stay hidden.

That meant there was only one possibility.

“Claude!” 

They’d reached Hilda’s Spanish classroom, and she and Felix were lingering on the threshold. Hilda called into the room, “Come help with these! They’re so heavy.”

“They’re _cupcakes,_ not bowling balls,” called Claude from within the classroom. “Carry them yourself.”

“ _Claude!”_ Hilda cried.

“ _Coming_ , dear,” called Claude. A moment later, he appeared in the doorway. A brief look of surprise flashed across his face, before his expression settled into the familiar unnerving smirk. “Oh, hey, Felix. So you’re the chump doing Hilda’s dirty work today, huh?”

Felix ground his teeth. “You have five seconds before I drop these,” he said, gesturing to the two trays of cupcakes. “Either you catch them, or they end up on the floor. Your choice.”

Claude, wisely, took the trays from Felix’s arms. 

“Thanks, pal. Hey, why don’t you take one?” Claude said. “You earned it.”

“I hate cupcakes,” said Felix.

“Even ones with pink frosting?” said Claude, raising an eyebrow. 

Felix scowled. “ _Especially_ those.”

_____

Rodrigue was working from home that week, which meant Felix, like he did whenever Rodrigue was home, spent most of the evenings with Sylvain. If theory, they were working on college applications; in practice, Rodrigue barely noticed when Felix wasn’t home, so he never asked. Most of the time, they only managed to spend a few minutes on homework before they gave up the pretense and switched on Sylvain’s PS4 to play something stupid, loud, and most of all, violent. 

“Take that, you piece of shit!” Sylvain crowed, thumbs flying on the controller. Onscreen, a pirate slashed naval officer after naval officer, sending splatter of blood and gore onto the pavement. “Yeah, that’s right. How you like me now, baby?” 

“Wrong side of the screen, dipshit,” Felix said, without taking his eyes off of the television. “You’re the one on the left.”

“Dude, no I’m not,” Sylvain protested. “You’re the blue pirate. I’m the red pirate.”

“And? Which side of the screen’s the red pirate on, dickhead?” Felix asked, narrowly avoiding a round of gunfire from the defended fortress.

“ _Fuuuuuck_ ,” Sylvain groaned. “You mean I’ve been running face-first off a cliff this whole time and you didn’t tell me?”

“I just did,” Felix said. “Hurry up. You’ve got one life left, and if we don’t get to the checkpoint before you die, we’re fucked.”

“I’m trying,” said Sylvain. “These controls are a nightmare. Who designed this shit?”

Felix scoffed. “First it’s ‘I’m looking at the wrong side,’ now it’s ‘these controls suck.’” He squinted at the screen, and muttered, “Where’s that fucking checkpoint?”

“Wait, is this it? This shiny globe thing here?” Sylvain asked. Felix glanced at Sylvain’s side of the split-screen.

“That’s it,” he said, and then, alarmed as a massive army approached Sylvain’s character, added, “Fuck, watch out on your left! Use the sword!”

“Shit,” Sylvain fumbled. “Wait. What button’s my sword?”

“B! Press B!” Felix exclaimed. “This isn’t hard, you just fucking _press the button_ . Oh my god, this is _your game._ ”

Sylvain mashed the button but wasn’t fast enough to stop the onslaught of enemies. “GAME OVER” appeared across the screen in melodramatic red text.

Felix threw the controller to the ground in frustration. “I’m going to kill you. I’m _actually_ going to kill you,” he said.

Sylvain grinned at him sheepishly. “How about a snack break?”

So instead, they migrated to the kitchen where Sylvain poured a bag of Doritos into a plastic bowl. Felix let Sylvain take the chair with his back to the wall and politely pretended, as he always did whenever they hung out in Sylvain’s kitchen, not to notice the discolored wallpaper where framed photographs of Miklan once hung. 

Sylvain didn’t talk about his brother. They were nearly a decade apart in age, but more than that, the name “Miklan” cast a sickly shadow over the Gautier family. Felix didn’t know the precise details; he’d been grieving his mother’s death when Miklan had disappeared from Sylvain’s life and didn’t have the mental space to handle a second tragedy. Years later, when he’d asked what happened to Miklan, Sylvain had laughed humorlessly and said in a hollow voice, “Heroin, mostly, but sometimes meth and ketamine, too. The holy trinity of bad decisions.” 

Felix hadn’t asked again.

“Hey, so,” Sylvain said, in-between bites of chips. “Did something happen? You’re grouchy today. Er, grouchier than usual.”

Felix glowered. “Nope.”

“Because if it did, you could tell me. It’ll be our secret,” Sylvain continued. “We could spit-shake like we did when we were kids.”

“I’m not spitting into my hand. That’s disgusting,” said Felix. “And nothing happened, alright? I’m just tired. I slept like shit all weekend.” This was a half-true statement, but it obscured the fact that Felix’s sour mood had more to do with Claude’s meddling than a bad sleep cycle.

Sylvain made an exasperated sound. “You always sleep like shit. I text you at two a.m. and you reply like, within _seconds_.”

“That means you’re also awake,” Felix pointed out. “You can’t say shit about my sleep schedule when yours is just as bad.”

“Pot kettle black, I s’pose,” said Sylvain. He studied Felix for a moment, making Felix feel uncomfortably exposed. Sylvain always had been the person who knew him best, after all; for a moment, he wondered if Sylvain would call his bluff. That would mean explaining why exactly Claude got on Felix’s nerves, which would require explaining the sordid Dimitri-Claude affair, and Felix was in the mood to do _neither_ of those things.

Sylvain took another handful of chips. “So, rematch?” he said. “Or do we actually do what we pretend we’re doing and start on college apps?”

Felix looked at him. “If you actually thought I was in a bad mood, do you really think _college applications_ would be the thing to fix it?”

“Aye, aye,” said Sylvain. “I hear you loud and clear, chief.”

_____

Dorothea had been peeling her orange without eating it for a weirdly long time. Felix, watching the rinds pile up on her lap, forming a small mountain of peel, took a bite of his sandwich. Chewing gave him an excuse to avoid addressing the petulant frown forming at the corners of Dorothea’s mouth. 

Unlike Felix, whose preferred method of dealing with emotions was to lock them in a box, bury the box in the back of a closet, and burn the entire house to the ground, Dorothea loved talking about her feelings. Today, however, Felix stared at Dorothea as she sullenly continued to scrape the skin from the fruit. She said nothing.

“Are you stocking up on rations?” he said at last.

Dorothea jerked her head up to look at him. She looked dazed. “Huh?” 

Felix gestured at the pile of orange rinds. “You’ve been peeling for like, five minutes. Are you ever gonna eat that?”

“Oh. Right—” Dorothea said distantly. She stared at the orange as if it were a foreign object in her hands, before she peeled off a single wedge and took a small bite. “Whoops. Looks like I got distracted.”

“ _Peeling an orange?_ Since when does that take a lot of mental concentration?” said Felix. Dorothea spread her hands, one of which was still holding the orange, in a helpless gesture. Felix shook his head. “Nevermind. Forgot who I’m dealing with.”

“ _Hey_ ! What’s that supposed to mean?” Dorothea protested. “Felix Fraldarius, did you just call me _dumb_?”

“Wasn’t my intention, but if the shoe fits—”

“You’re just jealous because I have a better GPA than you do, and you know it.” Dorothea sniffed. She took another orange wedge before offering the orange to Felix, who wordlessly declined. “I’m just so distracted lately. I hate it. Voice lessons, plus paper tech for _West Side Story,_ plus last-minute rehearsals for choir, _plus_ auditions for colleges? This month is just kicking my ass.”

“Poor you,” said Felix. “What’s it like to have _too many_ opportunities?”

He meant it as a joke, but Dorothea stiffened. “Oh, fuck you,” she said. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“No, I don’t. What _did_ you mean?” said Felix, almost defensive. 

Dorothea frowned. “I’ve had a hard week, okay?” she said. “I’ve been going through some—Rehearsals are hard. I’d expect you of _all people_ to understand that.”

“Why me?” said Felix. “I’m not seeing the connection.”

“You have rehearsals, don’t you? Or, practices, or whatever you call them.”

“We dick around in a practice room for a few hours, if that’s what you mean,” Felix started, but Dorothea shook her head.

“You’re not helping your case, here. Would it kill you to have a little empathy?”

“Don’t you mean sympathy? Empathy—”

“I know what empathy means,” Dorothea snapped. “Sympathy, empathy; whatever it is, you don’t have it.”

Felix sighed. This wasn’t going the way he’d wanted it to go.

“Look,” he said. “When’s the concert?”

Dorothea ran a hand through her hair. “Next Thursday at eight. Right after I get out of _West Side_ rehearsals—”

“Where?”

“Uh, what?” said Dorothea. “In the auditorium. You know, where they had convocation?” Felix, who avoided everything “school spirit” related as a point of personal pride, tried to remember the last time he’d been in the auditorium. Freshman year, probably; back when Sylvain had been hilariously miscast as Cyrano in the drama club’s production of _Cyrano de Bergerac._

Dorothea misread his blank look. “You don’t have to come. It’ll be hours long, and the show choir’s _horrible_ this year. I’m in Classical Choir, and we aren’t on until the end.”

“I’m coming,” said Felix. 

“Really?” Dorothea said. She sat up, brushing aside the remains of her orange. Her eyes were tentatively hopeful. “You aren’t just teasing? Because I’ve been begging you to come to my recitals for _years_ and you never do.”

“What, do you _want_ me to stay home?” Felix asked. “Because I’m happy to do that too.”

Dorothea shook her head. “No. I want you to come. I’m just surprised, y’know. You hate school things.” She gazed at him thoughtfully. “Does this mean you’ll also come to _West Side Story,_ too? We’re selling out fast, so you should buy your ticket early if you want a seat.”

“Don’t push your luck,” said Felix. “You know I hate musicals.”

“I know, I know,” Dorothea sighed. “I just thought, in the spirit of uncharacteristic Felix decisions, you might’ve changed your mind on that, too.” She stretched out her legs, tugging at her uniform skirt to cover her knees. “Then again, I suppose Annette isn’t involved with the musical—”

“She’s _what_?” said Felix. For some reason, his face felt hot. “Sorry, why does that factor in here?”

Dorothea gave him a strange look. “Um, maybe because she’s your bandmate? Something about band solidarity?” She raised her eyebrows. “Why, is there another reason?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Felix said at last. “Of course there isn’t.”

Dorothea smirked. “Oo-kay,” she said, crossing one leg over the other with a self-satisfied air.

“What?” Felix said. “If there’s something you wanna say, go ahead and say it—”

“No, no,” Dorothea raised her hands in protest. “I’m not saying anything. If you say there’s nothing, then there’s nothing.” She leaned back, tilting her face up to the sun, and closed her eyes. “So, anyway, the concert starts at eight, but if you want to sneak in at nine for our part of the show, it’ll be our little secret. Just make sure Ferdie doesn’t see you come in.”

“He’s a stickler for punctuality?” said Felix.

“It’s more like he has a competitive streak a mile wide,” said Dorothea. “If he sees that someone else succeeded where he’s failed and _finally_ convinced you to come to a choir concert, it’ll break his little heart.”

_____

Felix was lying on the floor of his bedroom flipping aimlessly through a library copy of _Les Miserables_ when Glenn called from New York. “Third place!” he crowed as soon as Felix picked up the phone. “That’s _incredible_. Fe. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was going to,” protested Felix. “You didn’t give me much time. Results came out on Sunday.”

“And, what, you sent the news with a carrier pigeon?” Glenn laughed. “You know, there are these things called cell phones. They let you send stuff instantly. Amazing technology.”

“Fuck you,” said Felix. “Who told you, anyway? Dad?” Unlikely, but he had to ask.

“Nah,” Glenn said. “Dad doesn’t remember to piss unless his assistant puts it on his iCal. Ingrid told me.”

“Mm,” said Felix, who supposed this made sense. Glenn had been on the boys’ soccer team for most of high school, which had practiced at the same time as the girls’. Ingrid had ridden home with him from practices before she’d earned her license. For the longest time, Felix wondered if they were together, but when he’d voiced that thought, Glenn had given him a blank look. 

It wasn’t until a messy, pre-graduation breakup a few months later that Felix had realized Glenn had spent his senior year of high school dating Hilda’s older brother Holst. (Glenn had a girlfriend in New York, now, but Felix hadn’t met her. It was a fairly recent development.)

“So, listen,” Glenn said. “I’m not gonna make it home for Thanksgiving. Can you and Dad manage not to burn down the house?”

Felix, who had been expecting this, shook his head. A split second later, realizing that this was a phone conversation and Glenn couldn’t see him, he said, “He won’t be home. You know him. Oh, he’ll say he’ll be home, but at the last minute, some stupid work ‘emergency’ comes up, and he’s driving down to Washington before the turkey’s even cold.”

“Sounds like dad,” Glenn agreed. “How is he? Still falling asleep watching C-SPAN, or did he finally kick the habit?”

“Nope. Breaking News: Local Father Still Workaholic Asshole. More at eleven.”

Glenn laughed. “Did I tell you he tried to get me to quit school and work for the mayor’s office? I had to distract him with stats about New York infrastructure to get him off my back.”

“The man does love his subways,” Felix said. “Or shitting on how slow they run, at least. How’s New York, by the way?”

“Killer,” said Glenn, and Felix could hear the smile in his voice. He tried to avoid the feeling of jealousy that rose like bile in his throat. He failed. “You’d love it. You can just walk around in your own world and no one gives a fuck who you are or what you’re doing.”

“Sounds like my kinda place,” Felix told him. “You’re in Manhattan?”

“Barely,” said Glenn. “Hamilton Heights, up past Columbia. It takes an hour just to get to midtown.”

“Look at you. ‘Midtown.’ Sounding like a city slicker already,” Felix said. “When do you start having strong opinions about bagels? Is that two months from now? Three?”

“Don’t diss the New York bagel,” Glenn warned. “That’s a serious offense up here. They’ll have your head for that.”

“Who’s ‘they’? The mob?”

“Sure,” said Glenn. ‘What else is the mob supposed to do with their time now that the city’s clean again? Broken windows; all that.”

“Don’t be a Republican,” Felix said, and Glenn laughed. In the background, Felix could barely make out the sounds of the city, muffled as they were over the phone. It filled him with an inexorable sense of longing for something more exciting than the mundanity of suburban life. 

“Alright, let’s see,” Glenn mused. Felix could almost see him ticking off items on his fingers. “Talked about invitationals, talked about Dad— oh, I know. How’s the new girl? My replacement.”

‘You mean Annette?” Felix asked.

 _“Annette,_ huh?” Something in Glenn’s voice told Felix that Glenn was suddenly _very_ interested in this conversation.

Felix’s cheeks burned. “What? Shut up. It’s not like that.”

“Sure it isn’t,” Glenn drawled. “Hey, I don’t blame you. Some new girl joins the band, and suddenly you’re placing in the top three at invitationals? Shit, I’d be a little starstruck too.”

“Fuck you,” said Felix. “Maybe we all just practiced over the summer. You don’t know how judges decide this shit.”

The words sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears. “Maybe,” Glenn admitted. “But it’s a hell of a coincidence that New Girl — _Annette_ — joins BP the same year you just _happen_ to get bronze.”

“Bronze? They don’t give out trophies for invitationals.”

Glenn sighed. “Figure of speech, Fe. No need to get so defensive. I think it’s cute, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Cute? I’m—This—” Felix sputtered. “No way. That city pollution is starting to rot your brain.”

“If you say so,” said Glenn. “How’s everyone else doing, by the way? Sylvain still Sylvain?”

“Of course. You’ve been gone for six months. How much could have changed?”

“Had to ask,” said Glenn lightly. “He’s not still dating Hilda, is he?”

“I don’t think ‘dating’ is the right word for whatever they were doing,” Felix deadpanned. “But no, now that you mention it, I haven’t heard anything lately. Guess she’s back with Claude.”

“Or Sylvain’s moved on to greener pastures,” said Glenn.

“What? No,” Felix scoffed. “Believe me, if Sylvain had a new conquest, I’d know.”

“So maybe she’s not a conquest. Maybe he’s grown up a little.”

Felix’s jaw dropped. “Jesus, I must have a shitty connection, because for a second there, it sounded like you said _Sylvain’s too mature for hookups._ ”

“There’s nothing wrong with the phone,” Glenn said. “Stranger things have happened, right? Just last week, I saw two naked cowboys get in a fistfight in Times Square.”

“I don’t know,” said Felix. “Sylvain going celibate still seems weirder. Make it _three_ naked cowboys, and then we’ll talk.”

_____

When Felix got off the phone with Glenn, Rodrigue was making coffee in the kitchen. Felix ignored him as he rummaged through the refrigerator, parting the Red Sea of energy drinks and premade sandwiches as he looked for something to eat. Something quick, ideally, because as much as Felix needed to eat, he preferred going to bed hungry to the idea of spending more than a few seconds in the same room as his father

Settling on a leftover slice of cold pizza, Felix closed the door with his shoulder. He turned to leave, but before he could retreat to his bedroom, Rodrigue looked up at him.

“I’m looking forward to your gig on Friday,” he said as he waited for the coffee to brew. “I know it’s not the same without Glenn, but hopefully—”

Felix stared at him. Fucking _unbelievable._ “Invitationals were back in October,” he said coldly. 

“What?” Rodrigue’s eyes were wide. “That’s impossible. I told my assistant to put it in my schedule for—”

“October 26th,” Felix finished, with a steely glint in his eye. “That was two weeks ago. Time to get a new assistant, old man.”

“What?” Rodrigue said again, dumbly. “Felix, come back—” 

Felix was no longer listening. When he reached his bedroom, he slammed his bedroom door behind him with enough force to send his Talking Heads poster falling from his wall.

_____

Professor Casagranda had apparently once again decided to let a movie about Rome teach her Latin III class for her. She’d popped in a DVD of _Life of Brian_ and passed out a worksheet with easily Google-able plot details and disappeared into her office, ostensibly to “grade papers,” which was absolutely a euphemism for “sleep off a hangover” if Felix had ever heard one.

Aside from a few over-eager sophomores diligently taking notes, most of the class wasn’t even pretending to pay attention. Next to Felix, Dimitri had his phone out and was scrolling through the plot summary on Wikipedia as he filled in the answers with a ballpoint pen.

“You know she doesn’t grade these, right?” Felix said. “She just scans to see if you wrote something and gives you full credit. Just write gibberish.”

“Wouldn’t that take as much work as what I’m doing?” said Dimitri, without looking up from his worksheet. “Also, you don’t know that. What if this is the one worksheet she _does_ grade?” 

Felix rolled his eyes. “It’s one bullshit assignment. You’ll live.”

“Can’t,” Dimitri scrolled through Wikipedia. “If I’m majoring in Classics in college, I need a Classics professor to write me a letter of recommendation. If I slack off, there goes my letter.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Felix said. “You’re Junior Class President, in three billion honor societies, and you volunteer at the children’s hospital once a month. You’re any college’s wet dream. Why are you so hung up about a recommendation for _Classics_?”

Dimitri sighed. “I told you. If I want to be a lawyer, the best way—”

“Oh, so this is about _law school_ now? You haven’t even graduated yet.”

Dimitri finally looked up from his phone. His mouth formed a thin line. “My dad didn’t come to invitationals,” he said flatly.

Felix blinked. “Join the club,” he said, unsure why the conversation had taken this turn.

Dimitri shook his head. “No, you don’t get it. My dad didn’t come because _I didn’t tell him they were happening_.” A look of embarrassment flashed across his face. “He thinks this music thing is a hobby, and he’s fine with it, as long as it stays that way. I told him I was playing video games at Sylvain’s. I don’t know if he bought it, or if he just wanted to so badly that he didn’t say anything.”

Felix stared at Dimitri. “You know you’re gonna have to tell him eventually. We play semi’s at the Adrestia downtown. They actually advertise that.”

Dimitri gave him a dry and humorless smile. “Don’t worry about me. I have a lot of practice keeping secrets from my dad. Maybe I should list that as one of my extracurricular activities.” 

Before Felix could ask what he meant by that, Dimitri had returned to the worksheet and was once again scrolling through the plot summary on his phone. “Did they seriously name this character Biggus Dickus, or is someone on Wikipedia messing with me?”

Felix, who’d seen _Life of Brian_ before but not enough to remember the details, didn’t have an answer.

_____

The night of the choir concert, Felix found himself sitting in a mostly-full auditorium, surrounded by parents, families, friends, and assorted Garegg Mach students who had a hard-on for school spirit. He’d been planning on taking advantage of Dorothea’s advice and showing up an hour into the concert, but Dorothea had apparently also invited Sylvain who wouldn’t hear of showing up late. And so, with only minor complaining, Felix ended up going with Sylvain, the two of them finding a spot in the back of the room and settling in for (Felix hoped) a short night of mostly painless music.

Unfortunately, Dorothea hadn’t been kidding about the length of the show. Felix checked his watch once, twice, three times as thirty minutes turned into an hour, before Sylvain elbowed him in the ribs and hissed, “Pay attention. You’re being rude.”

Felix ended up taking this advice exactly once, when, at the very end of the concert, Dorothea and Annette emerged from the choir to sing a duet. Felix knew absolutely nothing about classical music, but the second Annette opened her mouth to sing, it didn’t matter. With every fiber of his being, he focused on that stage, barely aware of Dorothea’s presence. Annette sang, and Felix felt every cell in his body cry out—no, every _atom_ reached for her like a flower reaching for the sun.

He came back to himself when the duet ended and the audience erupted in applause. 

Sylvain placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled. “Yeah! Those are my _girls_!” He cheered, earning him a few scandalized looks. He turned to Felix. “Weren’t they great?”

“Hmm? Yeah,” said Felix, distantly, as overhead the house lights flickered back on. 

Sylvain gave him a look. “You think that wasn’t great stuff?”

“What? No, I—”

Sylvain shook his head. “Talentless hack. You wouldn’t know music if it slapped you in the face.”

Felix glowered. “You keep cutting me off. Did I _say_ —” 

But Sylvain was already moving on. “Aw, forget it. C’mon.” He gestured to the audience, which was already beginning to file out of the auditorium. “I told Do we’d meet her afterward. If we want to get out of here by Christmas, we should get moving.”

Felix followed Sylvain out of the auditorium into the lobby, where clusters of families were embracing by (Felix noticed with annoyance) the entrances and exits. He scanned the lobby, passing over underclassmen girls in their show choir dresses, underclassmen boys in ill-fitting tuxedos, and upperclassmen who seemed to be pretending they were beyond it all (despite the reality that they were, in fact, still doing choir.) 

To Felix’s chagrin, there was no obvious sign of Dorothea. “Let’s split up,” he said to Sylvain. “It’ll be faster that way.”

“If you insist,” said Sylvain. “You stay here in case she comes out through the auditorium. I’ll go back to the choir room.”

That was fine by Felix. He watched as Sylvain left, effortlessly sliding through a sea of people, until he was swallowed up by the crowd and disappeared, leaving Felix alone.

Bored, Felix cast another cursory glance around the room. At first, he didn’t see anything unusual; just the same mass of people he’d noticed when he’d checked thirty seconds ago. But then, in the corner of his eye, he spotted a blur of motion. Hoping it was Dorothea, he turned, and came face to face with Ingrid.

“Um,” said Ingrid. She had the panicked look of an animal caught in a trap, like he’d somehow caught her doing something  _ wrong _ — which was so bizarre to Felix that he felt his mind short-circuit.

“What,” Felix said, because,  _ what.  _

Ingrid reddened. “It’s a free country. I’m allowed to be here,” she said briskly. “And— I came for a reason. Someone invited me. I’m not just—”

“Annette?” Felix asked. It seemed like a stretch, but it was the only thing he could think of.

Ingrid nodded furiously. “Exactly. Annette. The duet. Great stuff.”

“What about the duet?” asked Annette, emerging from around the corner with Dorothea. She caught sight of Ingrid and her eyes lit up. “Oh, you came! Ingrid, that’s so sweet of you. You really didn’t have to.”

Behind her, Dorothea gave Ingrid a knowing look. Ingrid looked at the floor.

“But Dorothea really deserves the credit,” Annette was saying. “Since it’s a duet, not a solo. And she took the melody, anyway, which is way harder. Everyone knows that.”

“Annette, you’re too kind,” Dorothea beamed. “A girl gives her a compliment, and she immediately passes it on to someone else. You’re too precious. Isn’t she precious, Felix?”

“What?” said Felix, who hadn’t fully recovered from the shock of seeing Ingrid. “Uh—”

Thankfully, Sylvain chose that moment to reappear, sparing Felix the embarrassment of having to answer that question. “So I checked the choir room, and —” He cut himself off. “Hey, you found them!”

“We found him, more like,” Dorothea said. “So? What did you think of the concert?”

“Most of it was a real snooze-fest,” said Sylvain. “But there was this one duet at the very end. Livened up the whole show.”

“You suffered through an entire show of boredom just for us?” Dorothea preened. “You big softie.”

“For you two? I’d do it again,” Sylvain grinned. 

Ingrid cleared her throat. 

Sylvain turned to look at her. “Oh, hey, Ingrid. How long’ve you been here?”

“A while,” said Ingrid stiffly. “And now I’m leaving.”

“Hey, whoa, hold up,” said Sylvain. “Don’t leave yet. Why don’t we all head out to Fergus’s for some post-game pancakes?”

“It’s a school night—” Ingrid started, but was interrupted by Dorothea, who clapped her hands together gleefully.

“Ooh, I’d love a milkshake. We’ll be there. Annette? Felix? Are you two coming?”

“I can’t,” said Annette. “Mercie gets off work at nine-thirty, so we were planning on getting takeout.”

“What the hell, why not invite her, too?” Sylvain offered. “Make it a party.”

“Oh, um, okay. Yeah, I’ll come, then.” Annette looked over at Felix. “But only if Felix comes, too.”

Felix, who had fully planned on declining until that exact moment, found himself saying, “Sure. Why not?”

Annette beamed at him and Felix felt himself melt. 

_____

Felix told himself, his shoulder pressed against Annette’s, that he was only uncomfortable because the six of them were crowded into a diner booth meant for four. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. It wasn’t like anyone at the table was paying any attention. Across the table, Ingrid was wolfing down an ice cream sundae, but the rest of the group was deeply involved in some discussion about some book they’d all read. 

Felix had been half-listening to the conversation, but he’d been distracted when Annette’s order of fried dough had arrived at their table. She’d reached past him for a napkin, and her wrist had brushed against his bare forearm. It had only lasted an instant, but Felix replayed it, slowly, torturously, longing for the day when science had advanced enough that he could sign up for a lobotomy and get rid of his stupid _feelings._

“What, are you seriously saying that you think _Romeo and Juliet_ is better than _Much Ado About Nothing_?” Sylvain was saying to Dorothea. “Seriously? That’s such a basic opinion.”

“It’s basic for a reason,” Dorothea protested. “Things don’t have to be avant-garde to be _good,_ you know. It’s the greatest love story of all time! It’s true love.”

“It’s two kids who can’t keep it in their pants getting themselves, and half the named cast, killed,” said Sylvain. 

“That’s not the point of the play,” said Dorothea. “And that’s not their fault, anyway. It’s _romance._ ”

“It’s a farce,” Sylvain said. ‘If that’s romance, I’ll skip it, thanks.”

“And that, my love, is why we broke up,” said Dorothea sweetly, stirring her milkshake with her straw. “You and I have _very_ different ideas of what ‘love’ is. Do you even believe it exists?”

“Sure I do,” said Sylvain. “I just think it looks a lot different than ‘I’m horny, let’s fuck, spoke too soon, now we’re dead!’”

Dorothea rolled her eyes. “Because ‘I hate you, oops, it was love all along’ is _so_ much better.”

“Excuse you. It’s called enemies-to-lovers, and it’s a very popular market,” said Sylvain. “Ingrid, back me up here.”

Ingrid stopped eating mid-scoop of ice cream. “Sorry, but I’m with Dorothea on this one,” she admitted. _“Romeo and Juliet_ ’s the better play. Just look at the cultural impact.”

“Cultural impact?” Sylvain sounded exasperated. “Oy, both of you. That wasn’t the question I asked.”

“You’re just bitter because you’re losing,” said Dorothea. “It’s two against one.”

“Temporary setback.” Sylvain turned to Mercedes. “Hey. Peanut gallery. Anyone else feel like speaking up in my favor? Mercedes? How about you?”

“Huh?” said Mercedes, who had been so quiet that Felix had almost forgotten she was squished in next to Annette. “Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t read any Shakespeare in so long. I don’t think I should vote on this.”

“You don’t need to know details,” Sylvain pressed. “Just vote for _Much Ado_ and ask questions later.”

“Sylvain!” Dorothea gasped. “Are you attempting to unduly influence the democratic process? The woman said she’d abstain; let her abstain.”

Felix was once again reminded why he’d hated hanging out with Dorothea and Sylvain while they were dating. On their own, both of them were perfectly tolerable, but together, their mutual affection for all things dramatic meant they egged each other on in a way that tended to give him a headache. It was almost like they were performing for an audience of no one but themselves.

He reached up to massage his temples.

“Fine.” Sylvain didn’t look happy. “Annette. How about you? What’s your hot take?”

“I don’t know if I have any hot Shakespeare takes,” Annette said helplessly. “I think they’re both good. Can’t I vote for both options?”

“Of course,” said Dorothea, at the same time Sylvain said, “No way.” The two of them glared at each other for a moment before Sylvain coughed and turned back to Annette. “If you vote for both, I’m still behind by one vote,” he explained. “So you might as well not vote at all, and that’s no fun.”

Annette took a bite of fried down, sending flakes of powdered sugar falling down her chin. She wiped them away with a napkin. “So, remind me again. It’s _Romeo and Juliet_ or _Much Ado About Nothing,_ right? That’s what we’re voting on?”

“It’s more than that,” said Dorothea earnestly. “It’s romance versus sexist bickering. It’s love versus lust. It’s about—”

“Yeah, yeah, let the girl think,” Sylvain interrupted. “Also, don’t you like _Much Ado?”_

“Liking a play and loving a play are two different things. Isn’t that the whole point of this debate?” Dorothea asked.

Felix wasn’t listening. He was watching Annette, her fried dough abandoned on her plate, as she bit her lower lip thoughtfully. She’d missed a light dusting of powder sugar when she’d wiped her mouth with her napkin, Felix noticed, and was immediately filled with a burning sense of frustration that he’d become the type of person who noticed those kinds of things. Abruptly, he turned his face towards the window, choosing to stare out into the night rather than risk finding something else to obsess over.

Annette was still deliberating. Felix wasn’t sure why, when he could already anticipate her answer. Annette liked big, sweeping romances, didn’t she? She obsessed over _Les Miserables,_ forced him to listen to whatever musical was her latest obsession on their carpool rides together, and had once sent him a long series of texts late at night where she admitted she’d cried at the end of _Shrek 2._ _Romeo and Juliet_ was the obvious answer.

“Okay, so, I think I’ve got it,” said Annette. “I’m… gonna have to go with _Much Ado_ , I think.”

Well, that was unexpected. Snapped out of his self-pitying reverie, Felix turned back to the table. 

“Romance girl goes for realism?” He asked. 

The rest of the table stared back at him, and Felix realized a second too late that he hadn’t said anything in a long, _long_ time.

“Not exactly,” Annette said. “No offense to _R and J,_ but I just don’t think it’s all that romantic. Well, I guess, maybe in a capital-R Romantic way, it might be, but love?” She wrinkled her nose. “I just think Ben and Bea’s relationship is a lot better. _That’s_ romance to me.”

“But what about the balcony scene?” Dorothea protested. “‘Arise fair sun and kill the envious moon’ is one of the most romantic scenes in all of literature. What do Ben and Bea have that even comes close?”

“You wanna talk about romantic scenes in literature? Let’s talk about it. You know what I think is the most romantic scene in literature?” Annette said defiantly. ‘Kill Claudio.’”

“‘Kill Claudio’ is _romance_?” Ingrid asked. “How is asking someone to kill someone romantic?”

Sylvain shushed her. Ingrid fixed him with a fierce glare, and, judging by the sound of pain that Sylvain let out, also kicked him under the table.

“Just—think about it, okay?” said Annette. “Hear me out. The most important person to Beatrice is her cousin, right? And Claudio, who’s been tricked into thinking his fiancee—that’s Hero, Beatrice’s cousin—cheated on him, he just ruins her and humiliates her in front of everyone. So that means she won’t be able to marry anyone else, which is basically a death sentence.”

“Keep going,” said Ingrid.

“So then we come to this scene. The ‘kill Claudio’ scene. Ben’s like, ‘I’ll do anything for you. What do you want me to do for you?’ And us, in the audience, we’re expecting her to ask him to marry her, because they’re in love, and that’s what happens in romantic comedies, right? But she doesn’t.”

“She asks him to kill Claudio,” Dorothea supplied. “Which would save Hero’s reputation.”

“Exactly,” said Annette. “She knows she’s powerless, but he isn’t, because he’s a man. But that’s not what makes this the most romantic scene you’ve ever read.”

“So what is it, then? What makes it so romantic?” asked Sylvain. “I’m on the edge of my seat.”

“He agrees to it. He believes her. He doesn’t have any proof or anything, and every other man in the play, even Hero’s _dad_ , believes she lied. But Ben doesn’t!” Annette’s face was shining. “He says, I believe you, because I love you, and I believe you so much that I’m willing to kill someone I thought I loved because they hurt someone _you_ love.” She shook her head fiercely. “Telling someone I trust you so much that I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep that trust? That’s _love._ Not lots of poetry about the moon.”

The table fell silent as Annette, breathlessly, finished. Annette, likely realizing how long she’d been talking, blushed. She stared down at the linoleum table. “Or, um, that’s what I think, anyway,” she said. “But— um, _Romeo and Juliet_ is also a really good play too.”

Dorothea spoke first. “God,” she sighed. “You almost make me want to change my vote.”

“What?” Annette looked up from the table. “Oh, no, _don’t_ . That was just a rambly little speech. It wasn’t, like, a _good argument_ —”

“You basically brought out a thesis statement,” said Dorothea. “If that’s not the definition of ‘good argument’—’

“So, what, that’s two for _Much Ado_ and two for _R and J_ ? _”_ Ingrid interrupted. “Ugh, does that mean _Felix_ is our tiebreaker?” She shuddered. “Figures. The least romantic person in the _world_ gets to decide this argument.”

“When did this become about _romance_?” Felix asked. “I thought you were just voting on which play was better.”

“Details, schmetails,” Sylvain said, waving a hand dismissively.

“No, come on,” said Felix. “There are other things in these plays besides fucking _romance_.”

“Like what? _Mercutio_ ? Because he _is_ pretty fucking cool, I’ll give you that,” said Sylvain. “Guy isn’t even involved in the blood feud, he just shows up for the drama of it all. His last words are a _pun_. Man, that’s how I wanna go out.”

Felix felt like he should point out that Sylvain was defending the opposition, but luckily, he didn’t have to. “Does that mean you’re changing your vote, Sylvain?” Mercedes asked lightly. 

“Me? Ah, I—” said Sylvain.

“No, no,” Ingrid shook her head. “Quit making it complicated. Everybody sticks with their original votes until we sort this thing out once and for all. _Felix_. Vote, already.”

“For fuck’s sake,” said Felix. “Fine. _Much Ado._ There; I _voted._ That’s 3-2.”

Sylvain raised his eyebrows. “Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but why? Was it Annette unleashing the ‘kill Claudio’ kraken that did it?”

“No, genius,” said Felix. “It’s how much I’m going to kill _you_ if we don’t move on from this bullshit.”

“Easy, children,” said Dorothea from across the table. “All’s well that ends well. Even if all of you _do_ have horrible opinions on literature.”

“Except for Ingrid,” Annette pointed out. 

“That’s true,” agreed Dorothea. She twisted in her seat and gave Ingrid her most simpering smile. “What would I ever do without you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ingrid muttered, fidgeting with her ice cream spoon. “Keep it in your pants. We’re in public.”

Sylvain took a swig from his bottle of root beer. “Speaking of Fergus’s. Hey, Mercedes, you’ve been working here for— a few months, right? A year?”

“Oh, no. It’s been about three years,” said Mercedes. “I can’t remember when I started, so it might be closer to two or four. But three years is my best guess.”

It was the type of softball small-talk question that didn’t anticipate an interesting response, but Sylvain seemed genuinely surprised at Mercedes’s answer. “What, really? That long?”

Mercedes nodded. “I—took a break for a few months when I thought I wanted to go to college, but I liked this job more, so, well, I’m back here now.” 

“My dad teaches at TPCC,” Ingrid said. “Tailtean Plains Community College? It’s just the next town over, and they have a lot of scholarship money if you ever change your mind.”

That was where Glenn had gone for the past two years. The whole time, he’d lived at home, continued showing up to Boar Prince rehearsals, and tried (unsuccessfully) to keep the peace between Felix and Rodrigue. When he’d told Felix he was moving to New York to study part-time and work for a record company, Felix had thought he’d been joking. Then again, Glenn had always been the perfect son; being an overachieving prick suited him well enough, didn’t it?

Sylvain fixed her with a withering stare, but Mercedes seemed unbothered. “Oh, no. It’s not that. I just realized I liked working more than I like studying.”

Her voice sounded completely casual, and Felix might’ve believed her if not for the split second where he happened to see Annette reach over and give her hand a reassuring squeeze. Neither of them looked at each other, and Felix doubted anyone else at the table even noticed what passed between the two of them before Annette dropped her hand.

“But don’t let me talk you out of applying,” Mercedes said brightly. “Where’s everyone thinking of going? I hope that’s not a sore subject. I know how hard this time of year was for me.”

“Well, Ingrid and I are still juniors,” offered Annette. “Which, you know, obviously. But Dorothea’s— you’re looking at theater schools, right?”

“Masochistically, yes,” said Dorothea. “Tisch is, of course, the dream, but it is for every single performing arts student in the country, so I don’t have high hopes.”

“Quit fishing for compliments,” said Felix. “You’re getting in, and you know you’re getting in. No one makes a panel of judges cry at their audition and then just doesn’t get into art school.”

Ingrid looked thrown. “Wait, you did _what_?”

Sylvain chimed in, “I hope it wasn’t a comedic audition. Like, based on context, I’m assuming this is a good thing, but man, that’d be fucking tragic if you went in with something from _Funny Girl_ and everyone ended up crying.”

Dorothea looked wary. “Do you actually know _Funny Girl_ or are you just assuming based on the title that it’s a funny show?”

“Hey, I was in Drama Two. I know theater.”

“Funny Girl isn’t actually all that—” Dorothea started, before Annette interrupted cheerfully:

“Sylvain’s applying to Ivy Leagues!” 

The conversation halted. Felix glanced at Annette, whose chin was tilted in triumph. She seemed to be communicating something to Sylvain from across the table, but Felix was genuinely unsure what. 

Was it that Sylvain was smart? Because, of course he was. Felix knew that; as much as Sylvain liked to pretend otherwise, he was the far and away the smartest member of their band. But why would Annette be so eager to remind everyone of something that they, or at least most of them, already knew?

“Really?” said Mercedes curiously. “That’s really impressive. Do you know what you want to study?”

Sylvain didn’t, and Felix knew this for a fact. The last time they’d both opened up the Common App, Sylvain had stared at the “tentative major” section in silence for minutes before he shut the laptop and announced he was taking a break. 

“Uh, who knows?” Sylvain said. “Maybe English. Maybe Poli-Sci, if I want to actually get a job after I graduate. I’m keeping my options open.”

“In other words, he has no fucking clue,” said Felix.

Ingrid frowned. “What, and you do? You tried to dye your hair with grape Kool-Aid. Who made you the poster child of having your shit together?”

“That’s different. I was _twelve,_ ” Felix said. “No one has their shit together when they’re twelve.”

Sylvain smiled, nostalgic. “Wait, I remember this. You’re supposed to use the unsweetened kind, but all Ingrid’s grandma had was the sugary stuff, and it was _ancient_ , but none of us could drive to go buy more, and Felix just, you know, insisted, so what were we gonna do, say _no—_ ”

“Sylvain, do you have any pictures?” said Annette. “That sounds adorable.”

“Nah, Felix made us destroy them all,” Sylvain explained. “Things got… clumpy.”

“Clumpy?”

Sylvain winced. “It was bad. Trust me. You’re better off not knowing.”

“Aww, rats,” said Annette. She twisted in her seat to face Felix. Her gaze lingered on his hair, which was, as usual, tied back in a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck. He felt suddenly very exposed. “You know,” Annette mused, her eyes focused on the stray curl just above his brow bone. “If you ever wanted a do-over, I think you could pull it off. Very rock and roll, you know? Just, you know, use _dye_ , not kool-aid next time.”

Her face was _very_ close to his; so close that Felix could almost feel her hot breath on his skin. For a moment, he had the strange idea that she wanted to reach over and tuck his bangs back behind his ear. It wasn’t that he froze or anything (nothing that embarrassing, _fuck_ ) but if Felix had to forcibly remind himself to breathe, well, that was between him and God.

Across the table, Felix could feel Sylvain staring at him. 

“I dunno,” he said, his voice completely casual. “Someone told me Kool-Aid’s making a comeback.”

Annette made a face. “Who said that? Whoever they were, they were either lying or they’re _really_ behind on issues of Teen Vogue.”

“You read Teen Vogue?” asked Ingrid. 

Annette twisted away from Felix, whose heart rate slowly returned to a normal resting rate now that he wasn’t the sole focus of Annette’s attention. “Yeah. Why not? I like reading the fashion section. Also, not that it matters, but they have really great political coverage lately.”

“Teen Vogue does politics now?” Sylvain let out a low whistle. “Strange times, eh?”

“You were going to tell us where _you_ were applying, Felix,” said Mercedes, cleaning her fingers with a napkin. She wadded it into a tight ball and dropped it onto her empty plate.

Felix turned to look at her. “Uh, do you actually want to know?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Mercedes said, and the worst part was, Felix actually believed her. That made it all the harder for him to swallow, and admit out loud:

“I don’t know. Community college, probably.”

On a rational level, Felix knew there was nothing embarrassing about community college. Not in theory, and especially not TPCC, which was ranked as one of the best community colleges in the country. Oh, his grades were fine, and Rodrigue could, as he had stressed to Felix multiple times, afford a private college. But all the same, no matter how hard he tried, Felix just couldn’t imagine himself at a pretentious East Coast school. 

Oh, how he’d tried. He’d suffered through “alumni interviews” when Rodrigue remembered he had a second son and reached out to his connections. He’d sat through college counseling interviews where an endless parade of well-meaning adults encouraged him to “push himself.” That still didn’t change the fact that Felix had legitimately no idea what he wanted to do, and (he worried) never would.

Mercedes nodded. “That’s a smart choice. More people should take advantage of community colleges.”

Felix, who felt like he was being patronized, snapped, “Oh, like you did?”

He regretted the harsh tone the moments the words left his lips, but Mercedes only nodded solemnly. “I should’ve.”

Felix ducked his head to avoid her sympathetic gaze. As dragged his fork across his plate of (mostly uneaten, and mostly cold) scrambled eggs, he could still feel her eyes boring into his skull.

Sylvain clapped his hands together. “Anyone in the mood for dessert?”

_____

In the end, only Sylvain and Mercedes ordered dessert. Ingrid was the first to leave, explaining that she had to get to school early the next morning to make up a government quiz. Dorothea followed after her, claiming something about auditions that Felix didn’t have time to process before she slipped through the door to the parking lot.

Annette finished off the last of her fried dough and brushed off her hands with a napkin. She took a sip of her water before she nudged Mercedes with her hip and said, “I have to go call my mom. Scoot over so I can get out.”

“She’s home already?” Mercedes said. “I thought she worked Thursdays.”

Annette shook her head. “She does, but today that’s the overnight shift going into Fridays, so she hasn’t actually left for work yet. My mom’s an ER nurse,” she explained to Felix. “She works during the day most of the time, but sometimes they schedule her at night. More emergencies, more demand, you know.”

“Make sense,” said Felix, before he shook himself. “Wait. Don’t call her. I’ll just drive you home.”

“What? Oh, no, you don’t have to,” Annette said. “My mom knows I’m out, and she said she’d give me a ride. You don’t have to leave yet if you don’t want to.”

“You’re giving Felix an excuse to leave a social event early,” said Sylvain. “If anything, he’s in _your_ debt.”

There was a long beat where Annette didn’t say anything. Felix had given her rides home before, but this felt different, somehow. This wasn’t the purely transactional drive of taking a bandmate home from practice in the middle of the afternoon. This was different, more delicate. Felix felt suddenly vulnerable, which was ridiculous. Friends normally didn’t react to the idea of driving each other home with a weird fucked-up longing. Friends didn’t forget how to breathe when they were near each other. 

Felix cleared his throat. “If you want that ride, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

Frowning, Annette nodded. “Okay,” she said, reaching down to grab her purse. “I’ll text my mom and let her know I’m coming. Let’s go.”

_____

“Did you like the concert?” Annette was saying as Felix started up his car. He couldn’t see her face — currently, he was slowly attempting to back out of his parking space, one hand resting on the passenger seat headrest as he craned his neck to look over his shoulder— but he could hear the hesitancy in her voice; picture the earnest smile. 

It was an innocent question, but something that managed to comically underestimate how Felix felt when he heard Annette sing. A nervous laugh built up in his chest; at the last minute, he managed to disguise it as a cough. 

“It was fine,” he muttered as he switched gears, spinning the wheel as he navigated out of the lot. “If you’re into the whole choir music thing.”

“I would’ve invited you if I knew you were interested,” said Annette. “I just figured, you know, the whole ‘choir music thing’ wasn’t really your scene. There isn’t a lot of headbanging at choral concerts. Someone should change that.”

“Oh my God. We need to update your references,” said Felix. “You’re in a _band_ . People haven’t _headbanged_ since like, the fucking _eighties_.”

“Untrue!” Annette protested. “I headbang. I headbang all the _time._ ”

“Oh, what, to _Les Mis_?”

“I listen to music besides _Les Mis_ , you jerk––”

Felix shook his head. “Right. Sorry, I meant _Phantom of the Opera_ . Or, no, _Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson_ ” 

“You’re unbelie–” Annette started, before she cut herself off with a small gasp. “Wait. Hang on a second. I didn’t make you listen to _Andrew Jackson_ ,” she said slowly.

“What?” Felix said. “No, we did. How else would I––”

“You listen to musicals now,” said Annette in mock-awe. “Musicals that I don’t physically force you to listen to. You like musicals.”

“Uh, did you miss the part where I didn’t say if I liked it?” Felix said.

Annette wasn’t listening. “I _knew it._ I knew it! I _knew_ you’d like musicals. Didn’t I say you’d like musicals?” Her tone was triumphant; like she’d solved the last piece of a puzzle. “Admit it. You _like them._ ”

Felix shook his head. “It’s one show. I _tolerated it._ I still haven’t changed my mind about the whole genre which, honestly, still sucks.”

“If you’re trying to keep up your cool-guy persona, it’s not working,” said Annette. “Now that I know you like—” She giggled. “You like _musicals._ ”

Felix tried not to focus on the fact that Annette apparently thought he was _cool._ “Are you making _fun of me?_ Because, you see the irony, right?”

Annette scoffed “That’s totally different. I’m a deeply uncool person. If anyone thinks I’m cool, Five dollars to the first person who thinks I’m not a massive nerd.” 

“I think you’re cool,” said Felix, before he could stop himself. 

“You should,” said Annette. “I just promised you five dollars. Who turns down that kind of cold, hard cash?”

Felix was switching lanes, so had an excuse to jerk his head in Annette’s direction. A small smirk played at the corners of her lips. On anyone else, it would look like flirty teasing, but this was Annette, and the idea that Annette could, or would, _flirt,_ was so alien to Felix that it must’ve been a trick of the light.

“Okay, I take it back. You’re a nerd,” he said. “Only because you’re the first person in fifty years who’s said the phrase ‘cold, hard cash’ out loud.”

Annette laughed. That sound, coming from her mouth, in response to something he’d said, was so unexpected that Felix nearly swerved off the road. He managed to grip the steering wheel just in time to avoid side-swiping the guardrail and hoped Annette hadn’t noticed that the sound of her laughter had nearly just killed both of them.

“Jerk,” she said. “Okay, fine. Now it’s _personal_. What do I have to do to convince you I’m just as cool as you are? Name five Tarantino movies off the top of my head? Respond to every single question with ‘no’ for a whole day? Punch a crocodile in the face?”

“Punch a— God, no. Do I even wanna know how you thought of that one?”

Annette shrugged. “Mom’s been on an Animal Planet kick lately. So? What do I have to do?”

“You can tell PETA the crocodiles are safe,” Felix said. “Just give me proof you listen to real music and we’ll call it even.” 

“Give me the aux,” said Annette with steely determination. Felix passed the cord to her and she plugged in her phone, pulled up Spotify, and began to scroll through her playlists.

Secretly, Felix thought coolness was vastly overrated. Honestly, he was more curious to find out more about the type of music Annette listened to, whether or not it was, strictly speaking, “cool.”

To his surprise, a song he recognized began to play. His dashboard display read: “I CAN’T BE WITH YOU - THE CRANBERRIES.”

“What?” said Annette. “Don’t tell me this doesn’t count as ‘real music’ for some made-up reason you just conveniently _forgot to mention_ until now.”

“No. Just surprised, that’s all.” It made sense, the more that he thought about it. Annette _had_ mentioned her mom liked The Cranberries at their first band practice. Then there was the fact that she’d decided on a song by Alannis _fucking_ Morissette, of all people, for karaoke at Claude’s. The mental image of Annette he’d built up over time seemed to be increasingly at odds with the real-life girl sitting next to him in his car. 

“Why’s that?” There was a new tone in Annette’s voice, something like hurt with an indignant edge to it. “I can’t like rock music after all? Do you have a patent for that or something?”

“No. What? _Jesus_ , it was just an observation,” said Felix. “No need to get defensive.”

“I’m not _defensive,_ ” Annette snapped. “I’m tired, okay?” 

Felix said nothing. Outside, it had started to rain; he turned on the windshield wipers, and aside from the music playing through the stereo, the thudding of the rain and the swishing of the wipers were the only sounds in the car.

Annette exhaled slowly and pressed her fingers to her temples.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t mean— it’s been a long night. I’m just tired.”

Maybe it was the stress of the day, or maybe it was the difficulty of driving at night in the rain, or the ridiculousness of having an argument about who was allowed to like what kinds of music, but Felix didn’t have the energy to accept an apology that didn’t really feel like it was about him at all.

But the silence dragged on, and he felt like he had to say something, so:

“Did you mean what you said back there?” Felix said at last. 

Annette looked up. “Um, you’re gonna have to be a little more specific.”

He was, wasn’t it? Felix breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. “About Shakespeare,” he said, which was as much detail as he was willing to offer. 

“Okay,” said Annette. “I’m still a little lost here. Wait, do you mean about _Much Ado About Nothing_ ? The whole Benedick and Beatrice thing?” She blinked. “I mean, I wasn’t _lying_ , if that’s what you mean, but also? Um, it’s a play. I don’t actually think puritanical sex culture and like, duels of honor are the height of modern-day love or anything. It’s just fiction. Not that I have anything to go off of or anything besides books, but I feel like that’s not a good basis for real-life relationships.”

“Wait,” Felix said. “You don’t?” 

“No. I don’t,” said Annette sourly. “And before you make fun of me—”

“I wasn’t going to.” Distantly, Felix was aware of his hands clutching the steering wheel. He stared straight ahead, retinas burning as he gazed into the headlights of the cars in the opposite lanes. He couldn’t look at Annette. He wasn’t sure he could handle her pity. “I mean, I couldn’t. I haven’t either.”

“You haven’t?”

Annette’s voice wasn’t judgmental. If anything, she sounded curious. 

“Nope,” said Felix, continuing to stare at the road in front of them. Annette was quiet, likely waiting for some kind of elaboration, but Felix couldn’t think of anything else to say. What else _could_ he say? Some people dated in high school, and some people didn’t. Not that Sylvain hadn’t tried to set him up with Dorothea’s friends (“We can double! It’ll be fun!”) but Felix hadn’t ever seen the point. He wasn’t a fucking _monk_ or anything, but dating? _Pass_.

“Um. You don’t have to tell me but— Like _anything_ anything?” asked Annette. “Because I haven’t — anything.”

“Anything?” said Felix.

“Um,” said Annette again, which made Felix suddenly, violently aware of the fact that they were having two separate conversations. He’d been talking about dating in general, but Annette had passed Go, collected $200, and skipped right to talking about sex.

Felix’s hands went from twitchy to sweaty. The idea of talking about sex with Annette, in his car, alone was too much, too fast, too soon. He swallowed.

“No, you’re right,” Annette was saying, before Felix had a chance to respond. “That’s way too personal. I shouldn’t have asked, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, you didn’t—” Felix said. He took another deep breath. “No. Also, no.”

Annette stared at him. 

“Not for any reason,” said Felix. The conversation still felt unreal, but it felt good, somehow, to get these things off his chest. He only wished it didn’t feel quite so good to talk to Annette. Felix was private by nature, and someone who gave him the space to open up was downright dangerous.

“No, I didn’t think—” said Annette. “I mean, I’m— me neither. Not for any reason, I mean, it just? Things happen. I don’t feel bad about — you know, but it’d be nice?”

“Mm,” agreed Felix. He stared out the windshield, not focusing on anything. Should he say something? He should say something, right? What did you even say in these fucking situations? God, he wished Sylvain were here. Sylvain would know what to do; he’d say some stupid joke, or some witty nonsequitur, and soon they’d both forget the awkwardness they’d slipped into. Felix stared longingly at the door handle and wondered if there was a safe way to fling himself out of a moving car.

“You wanna hear something really dumb?” said Annette. “For months I was totally convinced you and Dorothea were secretly dating.”

“ _What_?” Felix jerked the steering wheel to the right so abruptly that he nearly collided with a mailbox. At the last second, he slammed on the brakes. The two of them jerked forward. “Shit. Why?” The idea of dating Dorothea was so strange that Felix hadn’t even considered the possibility. That would’ve been somewhere between dating his sister and dating a feral cat.

“I don’t know. You hang out with her a lot,” said Annette. “And I guess it made sense that you’d want to keep it quiet since she and Sylvain dated a few years ago. You know, sneaking around, keeping it a secret from the band. What? Is it really that crazy? I thought you liked her.”

“I do,” said Felix. “Which is how I know she’s loud, and a gossip, and can’t keep a secret. She’d tell half the school without even trying to.” 

“No, she wouldn’t,” Annette protested. “That’s different. You know that’s different.”

“It doesn’t sound all that different,” said Felix. “How’s it different?”

“I don’t know. It just is,” said Annette, sounding exasperated. “It made sense in my head, okay? Which is also, whoa, so heteronormative. I mean, for all I know you could be gay—”

“I’m not gay,” said Felix.

Annette gave him a sour look. “Well, I know that _now._ And there’s no need to act so _offended_ about it, you know. Why is it insulting for me to _not_ assume you’re straight? Heteronormativity is so—”

“I didn’t say I’m straight, either,” Felix snapped. 

He regretted it the instant the words left his mouth, but it was too late to take them back. They’d slipped out so quickly, so uncharacteristically fast, that he barely recognized the syllables forming on his tongue until they’d slipped past his lips and condensed like smog around him. All Felix could do was breathe in through his nose, and out through his mouth. He counted up to ten, and then back down again.

Miracle of miracles, he’d managed to keep the car on the road. Distantly, he was aware that he was trembling.

“But you—” said Annette. “Oh. _Oh.”_

“Yeah,” said Felix heavily.

“You mean you’re—”

"Bi? Yeah.” 

The word felt strange to say out loud. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it before. He'd thought about it a lot, actually; probably even too much. The difference was, he’d never really verbalized the feeling. He hadn’t needed to: Sylvain came out as bi when they were sixteen, and saying _“me too, I’m that way too”_ was a lot easier than bringing it up himself.

There was also the way he understood, in retrospect, that he’d definitely had a crush on Dimitri at some point, long before either of them knew what crushes on boys looked like, but by the time he realized this, Dimitri was dealing with his own shit and there hadn’t been space to explain.

“Oh,” Annette said again.

“Yeah,” said Felix, stupidly. They reached the turn for Annette’s neighborhood, which gave Felix an excuse to avoid looking at her. Something about the way she exhaled made Felix ache to know what she was thinking. He wished she would say something; anything. He wanted to teleport them to the front of her house so he could kick her out of his car. He wanted the space, mental and physical, to process the colossal fuck-up he’d just made. He wanted her to stay. 

He wanted to be alone. He also couldn’t be alone.

“I’m—I’m so sorry _,_ ” Annette said softly. “I just went on a whole rant about being heteronormative and then, look at what I just did. That was so thoughtless of me. _No,_ ” Her voice took on a harsh tremor. “No, that wasn’t just thoughtless. It was cruel. I’m— _fuck,_ I’m sorry.” 

“I never thought I’d hear you say ‘fuck’,” said Felix, mostly as a distraction from how nauseous he still felt.

That brought a small smile to her lips. “Yeah, well, I—I messed up. I feel like if there’s ever a time to start dropping ‘fuck’s’ left, right, and center, well.”

Felix had nothing to say to that. They reached Annette’s house in silence. 

The rain had lightened up enough that, when Felix pulled the car into park, he expected Annette to make a hasty goodbye and sprint for the safety of her own front porch. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she unplugged her phone from the aux cord and unbuckled her seatbelt. Her door stayed closed.

“Um,” said Annette. “Do you mind if I—can I ask you something?”

“Okay,” said Felix, who still couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

“I’m not the first person who knows, am I? I didn’t—you got to choose who you came out to first, right?”

“Sylvain and Ingrid know, if that’s what you mean,” Felix admitted. “But Ingrid guessed, so I don’t think that counts. But—” He swallowed. “That’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud.”

“Oh, wow, um.” Annette coughed. “Can I ask a follow-up question?”

Felix made a noncommittal gesture, somewhere between _go ahead_ and _do you really think I could stop you?_

“How do you feel about hugs?”

Felix looked up. Annette was staring at him hesitantly, a cautiously hopeful light in her eyes. She gazed at him gently, almost fearfully, as if she were inspecting a caged animal from just out of arm’s reach. After a moment, Felix realized she wasn’t just being rhetorical. He cleared his throat.

“They’re, um, fine, yeah,” he said. “If you want.”

Carefully, Annette crouched over the gear shift. It was a difficult maneuver considering Felix was still clipped into his seatbelt, but resting her back knee on the passenger seat and her front knee on the console, she somehow managed to lean forward and wrap her arms around his shoulders.

It couldn’t have been comfortable, but Felix, selfishly, didn’t want her to move. He’d turned off the engine when they’d arrived at her house, including the heat, which wasn’t a smart move considering it was November, but in his defense, he’d assumed (pessimistically) Annette would bolt the second the car slowed to a stop. The car was cold, but Annette’s body was warm. He had his own personal space heater.

A few strands had come loose from her braid and grazed against his jaw as she rested her chin on his shoulder. Her hair was soft, and it tickled as she moved to pull away, leaving him with one last memory of her strawberry-scented shampoo as she sank back into the passenger seat.

“Um, in the sake of, you know, total honesty,” Annette coughed. “I don’t know if it — would it make you feel better if I—I don’t want to, um, make this whole thing about me, but I feel like you should know—” She trailed off. 

“Don’t,” said Felix. “You don’t want to say anything you’ll regret.”

“No, I want to say this. You’re my friend. I trust you,” said Annette. Her eyes burned with righteous fury. Felix felt like that was more than he deserved. “And, it’s only fair. I’m—I’m bisexual too.”

She was looking at him with so much raw vulnerability, so much _guilt_ that Felix felt a part of him shatter. Felix took a moment to pretend like he wasn’t going to spend the entire drive home overanalyzing every single microexpression that flashed across her face. Only a moment. There was only so much he could lie to himself about.

“You didn’t have to tell me,” said Felix. “Really, I don’t—I don’t want you to feel like—” He trailed off, his mouth suddenly dry.

“I know. I didn’t have to,” said Annette firmly. She was leaning forward, still making eye contact, in a way that felt intentional; pointed, even. “I don’t just do things because I have to. I wanted to tell you, because we’re friends. So I told you. And, well, now you know.”

“Now I know,” said Felix weakly. Annette was blinking too quickly and a little too much. Felix was suddenly struck with the knowledge that, once again, there was so much he didn’t understand about Annette. He’d thought she was a people-pleaser, but this was more than that. 

Annette was someone who was always viscerally aware of other people’s happiness; she carried that painful awareness every day like Prometheus waking up every morning still chained to the rock. It might be a new liver every time, but it was always the same fucking eagles.

Felix didn’t want to be an eagle.

“Wow,” he said. “Uh, this. This is—thanks, I guess. For telling me. Trusting me with—I’m not gonna tell anyone you don’t want me to. I promise.”

“And, um, the same for you. About, you know,” said Annette, with a forced calm that Felix still didn’t think he deserved. “I promise. Maybe we should pinky-promise, though. Just in case.”

“Pinky promise?” said Felix. “I’ll be honest, I haven’t done one of those since I was _five_. I don’t think I remember how to do it.”

“I bet you’re a fast learner,” said Annette. Before Felix could react, she reached over and swiftly hooked her pinky through his. “See? Simple.”

Felix spent the entire drive home wondering if Annette had wanted to say something more before she’d slipped out of the car. Impossible, he decided. It was just his imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) In case anyone is curious, the duet Annette and Dorothea sing is "The Flower Duet" from Lakmé  
> 2) From the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading xxx


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mama said nothing. The wedding ring on her finger, a small diamond set in a white-gold band, glinted in the low light. She’d been wearing it less often, lately, Annette noticed. Once, when the sky was pink and the dewdrops still lingered on the grass, Annette had woken to the sound of her mother crying. She’d tiptoed into her parents’ bedroom to find Mama curled up in the fetal position on the bed. She’d curled up beside her, and two of them had fallen asleep together beneath a fortress of blankets.
> 
> They didn’t talk about Dad very often. When they did, it was always in the vaguest possible terms. Like they were capturing a moonbeam. Like they were summoning a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mentions of the death of a parent (beginning at "The hallway was lined with framed photos" and ending at "For a moment, Felix said nothing, leaving Annette to wonder if she’d seriously misread the situation.")
> 
> Thank you all again for reading! Every time I check this fic & see I have a new comment or kudos, my heart grows three sizes. Thank you!

After the conversation in Felix’s car, Annette felt like things were different, now, between the two of them. Not worse, or even better. Just different. Annette wasn’t in the closet, really — Mercedes knew, and so did Ashe and Lysithea — but Annette hadn’t ever felt the need to “come out” in some kind of big public gesture. 

If she was being completely honest, this had less to do with some inane social justice crusade and more to do with the embarrassing fact that it just hadn’t ever come up. Sure, lots of people came out while they were still single, but Annette wasn’t one of them. The thought of making a Facebook post loudly and proudly proclaiming her sexuality when the immediate follow-up would be  _ “actually, no, I’m still single” _ felt humiliating.

She wondered if Felix felt the same way. She wondered why, then, he’d come out to her in his car. Annette was Annette, so in spite of how sternly she told herself to stop thinking about it, she spent the entire length of her post-concert shower thinking about literally nothing else. 

Felix had said Sylvain and Ingrid knew already, which ruled out “coming out in general” as the thing that had made him so emotional, but that information only confused Annette even more, because wouldn’t that suggest Felix was mostly worried about coming out to  _ her _ ? 

No, that’d be impossible, she reminded herself. Once again, she was severely overestimating how important she was to other people. Felix was upset because it was late, and they were both tired, and he’d said something he probably hadn’t meant to say. Felix thought she was a stupid girl who listened to musicals and loved romance novels and had no idea how the world actually worked. Felix, who thought gossip meant telling intimate secrets, was probably worried she’d tell the whole school.

Besides, if Felix really cared so much about what Annette thought, why hadn’t he responded to any of her texts from that night? Why had he waited until Sunday morning to reply to something in the band groupchat; to give her a hint that he was, you know, _still_ _alive_?

The hard truth didn’t spare her from the worst night’s sleep she’d had in months. Then came Friday, and then Saturday, and suddenly Annette realized she’d wasted nearly all of her weekend mulling it over in a distracted fugue-like state. 

She needed to get a hold of herself and stop obsessing. The alternative was spending every waking moment remembering how her reaction to an earnest confession had been “um, can I hug you?” and feeling a familiar humiliation course through her veins like an electric shock.

At any rate, Annette had more important things to think about. Or—not think about, as Ingrid kept trying to remind her from the passenger seat as they sat, parked in Ingrid’s jeep, currently idling in the parking lot of a shopping center roughly ten minutes away from Garegg Mach.

Today probably wasn’t the best morning for Annette to learn how to drive, but Ingrid had insisted that a trial by fire was how  _ she’d _ learned, and really, it was Annette’s own fault for forgetting they’d had this scheduled until Ingrid showed up at her house. Ingrid had even agreed to do most of the heavy-lifting on their morning commute (something about driving on unpaved roads and amateur hour). What was Annette supposed to do once Ingrid pulled into a parking lot and climbed into the passenger seat? Admit that she was too distracted to focus because she felt a bone-deep awareness that Felix trusted her, and that terrified her?

No. There really wasn’t any reason to keep getting so worked up about this. She had to stay focused on the road, check her mirrors, ease on the gas. She could do that. Easy.

“Good,” Ingrid was saying. “Now just push in the clutch and move into first gear.”

Right. There was also the fact that Ingrid drove stick, which Annette hadn’t exactly  _ known about  _ when she’d agreed to let Ingrid teach her. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Annette said. “We have school. What if something bad happens, like I crash or something?”

“You won’t,” said Ingrid with more confidence than Annette thought she deserved. “But you  _ are _ going to make us late if you keep stalling. So, get going.”

“Okay,” Annette exhaled. “Here goes.” She sucked in a harsh breath of air and slowly, like she was afraid it would bite her, moved her hand over the gear shifter. She moved the shifter into first gear and slowly lifted the clutch pedal. Was she shaking? She felt like she was shaking.

“Good,” said Ingrid. “Next thing you want to do is start moving to the gas.”

“The gas?” Annette squeaked. “Hold on a second, I’m still lifting off the clutch.”

“I know I said slowly, but not  _ that slowly _ ,” said Ingrid. “You get let off all the way now. Get to the gas, already.”

“I’m going, I’m going! I didn’t want to go too fast! What if I break your car? Or we blow up—”

“Annette,’ said Ingrid testily. “I promise you, on my lucky set of sticks, that we aren’t going to blow up.”

“— or we crash into a tree, and  _ then  _ we blow up —” 

‘Oh my  _ God.  _ Go, already,” Ingrid snapped. “You’re gonna do  _ fine.  _ Just  _ drive,  _ already,  _ please. _ ”

It wasn’t the best pep talk Annette had ever heard, but it was something. She eased onto the gas. The car rumbled forward, several miles per hour below the speed limit. They were still in the parking lot.

Ingrid made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat. “Okay, but speed up a  _ little.  _ You’re going five in a fifteen.”

“How do I do that?” Annette asked. “I’m pushing on the accelerator, but it’s not going any—”

“What?” Ingrid screeched. “No, no, no. You have to change gears first. Aren’t you looking at the RPM?”

“Where’s the RPM?” Annette looked frantically at the dashboard. “I’m just seeing this little dial.”

“That’s the RPM!” Ingrid was nearly shouting at this point. “Oh my God, is your foot still on the accelerator?”

“What? Should it be?” Annette abruptly took her foot off the pedal, causing Ingrid to bellow:

_ “Not all at once!” _

“So do I keep it on, or do I take it off? What do I do?  _ Ingrid _ —” 

“On, on, but just a little —” Ingrid twisted around to see if there were any cars behind them in the lot. “Do you remember  _ anything  _ that I was saying about clutch and gear? You have to put the clutch back in,  _ then  _ you move gears, then you feel for the friction point—”

“ _ Friction point?”  _ Annette shrieked. “You didn’t say anything about a friction point. Where’s the  _ friction point _ ?”

“You  _ feel it.  _ You  _ FEEL IT,”  _ Ingrid was fully shouting by now. “Oh, my  _ God,  _ how are you so bad at this? I taught my  _ grandma  _ how to drive a stick.”

They were still only going five miles per hour.

“This is ridiculous. Stop,” said Ingrid. “Just pull over. Annette, stop.  _ Stop!”  _

“I’m trying! I can’t find the brake! Oh, my God, Ingrid, where’s the brake?”

“It’s just between your feet. But first, you flicker the clutch to neutral, and you don’t —”

“Okay,” Annette exhaled. “Okay, I can do— Where’s the clutch?”

Ingrid put her head in her hands. Annette had the sense she was trying  _ very  _ hard not to scream.

Somehow, by the grace of God, Annette managed to find the clutch, pull over, and put the car in park without breaking anything. “I’m sorry,” Annette muttered. “I’m really so sorry about that. At least I didn’t, um, hit anything?” 

“It’s fine,” said Ingrid through gritted teeth. “You said you were a bad driver. I should’ve listened to you. This is all  _ fine. _ ”

A few moments later, they were back on opposite sides of the car. Ingrid put the Jeep back in gear and eased back onto the road.

“I can get someone else to teach me how to drive,” said Annette guiltily. “You don’t have to.”

“Oh,  _ no _ ,” Ingrid said. “No way. I’m not letting you near anyone else’s car. You’re a biohazard.” She shook her head. “Next time, I’m quizzing you on car anatomy.  _ Where’s the clutch.’  _ My God.”

“Next time?” Annette managed to squeak out.

Ingrid slowed to a stop at a red light before she turned to give Annette an incredulous look. “I said I’d teach you to drive, so I’m teaching you to drive. Even it kills me. And it  _ probably  _ will. Because you’re  _ so bad at this _ .”

It was awkward, prickly, and halting, but it was almost consoling, if Annette tilted her head and squinted. “Driving stick is really hard, okay?” Annette said. “There’s a reason they don’t make these cars anymore.”

“They don’t make ‘em like this anymore because people are pussies,” said Ingrid. “It’s not that hard. Lots of people teach themselves how to drive stick. I did.”

“Wait, you taught yourself to drive  _ stick _ ?  _ Willingly?  _ This wasn’t, like, forced upon you by your dad or something?” Annette asked.

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “My dad drives a hybrid. And I like driving stick.” The light changed to green, and Ingrid shifted the car into gear. “This car used to be my neighbor’s. He didn’t drive it anymore, so he let me practice on it when I was fifteen. We haggled for a while, but eventually, I bought it for $600.”

Annette knew nothing about cars. “Wow. That sounds really cheap.”

“It was highway robbery,” Ingrid said bitterly. “A car like this normally goes for a few thousand. I tried to get him to raise his price. He wouldn’t budge. I should’ve pressed harder, but I really needed this car.”

Annette instinctively glanced at the gear shift. “Because you only knew how to drive stick?” She guessed.

“Oh, no. Once you know how to drive manual, automatic’s easy,” said Ingrid. “It’s just that I didn’t— my family, we didn’t—” She sucked in a harsh breath, and turned to look at Annette. “If you tell anyone about this—”

That was starting to become a recurring theme of the week, wasn’t it? “Scout’s honor,” said Annette, raising her fingers in the Girl Scout Salute. 

Ingrid turned her attention back to the road. She seemed to be struggling to find the words. “My parents have five kids,” She said at last. “There’s me, my brother, and my three sisters. For a while, it was just four of us, but then came the baby. She’s turning two in February.”

Annette nodded encouragingly.

Ingrid took a deep breath. “My mom used to work for this big law firm. I don’t know what she did, exactly, but it was enough that my dad could teach community college and we’d be fine. But right after she went on maternity leave, the company did some ‘restructuring’ and she didn’t have a job anymore.”

“What?” Annette sat upright. “But that’s—”

“Yeah,” Ingrid said. “Yeah. I know.” She stared blankly ahead through the windshield. “So, I was fifteen-and-a-half, and I was teaching myself how to drive on my neighbor’s car. It was fun, at first. A challenge. But suddenly, my mom lost her job, and my parents were talking about money a lot, in this way that honestly felt terrifying. Late at night, when they thought I was asleep already. I think they knew I knew, but we just didn’t talk about it.”

Annette swallowed. As one of only a handful of students on a full scholarship to Garegg Mach, she was mostly exempt from worrying about the cost of tuition. Then again, her scholarship came with strings attached. Conditions. Prerequisites that Annette didn’t like to think about; not now, not ever.

“And one time, my mom had an interview for a new job, one that would’ve paid really well, but my brother had swim lessons right before, and my dad was at work, so that meant my mom was on chauffeur duty,” said Ingrid. “They hit traffic on the way back. She missed it by fifteen minutes. When she came home, she just looked so— deflated. And I kept thinking, if only we had this car, if only I wasn’t just borrowing it, maybe I could’ve… Maybe she would’ve… We could’ve...” Ingrid’s voice broke.

Annette said nothing. Ingrid stared out the windshield for a long, silent moment. “Anyway,” she said at last. Her voice was steady. “Now I have a car, and a scholarship, and a summer job coaching girls’ soccer camp that pays for insurance. Which we’ll need, when you inevitably crash into a tree and turn us into a can of sardines.”

“Hey! Hang on,” said Annette. “You just said you taught yourself how to teach stick.”

“Yeah,” said Ingrid. “I taught  _ myself.  _ The jury’s still out on whether I can teach  _ you. _ ”

Ingrid was smiling, like they were sharing some inside joke, and Annette smiled back as she settled into her seat, trying not to think about passenger seats, and spur-of-the-moment revelations, and how many of her own secrets still lay buried.

_____

Semifinals were in February. Annette knew this because she’d (optimistically) entered it in her calendar weeks ago, long before she knew about rankings. A part of her still wondered why Felix had been so convinced that rankings didn’t matter, but she brushed it aside. To someone like Felix, who could play a bass riff in his sleep, they probably didn’t. Last week, Annette would’ve dwelled on it longer, but she had other things to think about. Things like how Felix still hadn’t answered her texts; things like their short “vacation” from band practice before ramping up rehearsals for semifinals, which meant she hadn’t had a chance to confront him in person, either.

Ingrid flew into the lot just as Felix was stepping out of his car. Annette made eye contact with him through the passenger-side window and attempted something like a smile. Felix didn’t smile back, but he didn’t run away, either. Not that he had much of a head start— his spot was right next to Ingrid’s, so there wasn’t a lot of time to put distance between them.

“Hey,” said Ingrid, stepping out of the driver’s side. “Was it just me, or was that Edelgard speeding off back there?”

“Why would I know?” Felix asked.

“You were closer. You didn’t see her face?” Ingrid asked.

Felix gave her a blank stare. “Oh, shit, was that  _ her?  _ Must’ve been my fucking case of face blindness acting up again.”

“Oh, fuck  _ off.  _ I just think it’s weird. If it  _ was  _ her _.  _ Which I think it totally was. Where’s she going? We have school.”

Annette was only half-listening. She was still fumbling her way out of the passenger’s seat, which was taking up most of her cognitive energy. As she pushed open the passenger door, she realized a moment too late that the Jeep was a lot higher off the ground than she’d anticipated. Her foot caught on the ledge of the passenger door, and with a small squeak, she tumbled forward.

The world seemed to move in slow-motion. Distantly, Annette was aware that Ingrid was still talking, but she was only paying attention to Felix, who darted forward, a panicked look in his eye, and managed to catch her by the waist before she fell in an undignified heap on the pavement.

He held her gently and eased her onto the pavement, so slowly that it took her several seconds to realize her feet had made contact with the earth. Like she was fragile. Like she was something worth holding.

Ingrid, on the other side of the car, hadn’t noticed anything. “What, you don’t think it’s weird?”

“Ingrid,” said Felix. He was breathing heavily. His fingers were still pressed to her sides, just below her ribs. Annette felt her heartbeat racing like a hummingbird in flight. “Shut up.”

“Excuse me?” Ingrid snapped, but her voice sounded muffled. Far-away, somehow.

Felix was blinking a lot. Like he almost couldn’t bear to look directly at her. After a moment, he let his hands drop to his sides and turned away. She couldn’t read his expression, but Annette didn’t miss the way his right hand flexed. 

Like he’d been burned. Like she’d burned him. 

Ingrid appeared around the side of the car. “Well, come on,” she started, and then caught a better look at Annette’s face. She looked at the two of them suspiciously. “What happened to you?”

Well, that was the question. Annette had no idea.

_____

In the end, it was hard to tell whether Felix treated her any differently after their car ride on Thursday. Band rehearsals wouldn’t start up again for a few days, so her interactions with Felix were limited. He wasn’t responding to her texts, but Felix wasn’t exactly chatty. And he’d swooped in to save her from eating gravel, which was something, wasn’t it?

Then again, as the three of them walked from the parking lot to the main campus building, Felix refused to look at her, so maybe not.

By the time Annette got to homeroom, her mental fog was so thick that she barely noticed that Linhardt was sitting in her usual spot. She took the seat behind him, as she always did, and began flipping through her copy of  _ Wuthering Heights.  _ It wasn’t long, though, before she realized she’d been reading the same sentence for the last few minutes, and closed the book with a sigh, giving up on the whole endeavor.

Linhardt spun around in his chair. “Why didn’t you tell me to move?” He asked. It wasn’t an accusing question; just curious.

“Why would I do that?” Annette asked. 

“Because I’m sitting in your chair,” said Linhardt plainly. “Your seat is closer to the heater than mine, which is nice this time of year. When Ignatz said you weren’t on the bus, I assumed that meant you weren’t coming, so I took it before someone else could. But once you came in, I realized I’d been wrong.” He studied her closely as if she were a specimen underneath one of his microscopes. “You could’ve told me to move. Why didn’t you?”

“Is it really that big of a deal?” Annette asked. “Your chair, my chair. It’s just a chair. You got there first. You deserve it.”

Linhardt stared at her. Annette fidgeted in her seat. She felt, suddenly, like she’d given the wrong answer, but she wasn’t sure why, or how. Linhardt could be abrasive, even rude, but at times like these, Annette always had the strange feeling he knew more than he let on. Like he could see right through her, or read her mind if he had the willpower or the energy.

“Hmm,” Linhardt said, at last, breaking the spell. “Well, like you said, it’s a chair.”

“Yes,” Annette said gratefully. “It’s just a chair.”

Linhardt turned away to rummage in his backpack. For a moment, Annette thought their conversation was over, but he swiftly turned back around and placed a Tupperware container on her desk. “Before I forget: leftover cupcakes,” he explained. “Lysithea baked them, but I just can’t stand Red Velvet. The color reminds me of blood.” He shuddered. “I know you like sweets. Take one. Please.”

Annette stared at the plastic container for a moment, before she looked back at Linhardt. “Oh, that’s right!” She said, her face brightening. “Wasn’t it your birthday last—”

“Keep your voice down,” hissed Linhardt. “If you say the word ‘birthday’ too loud, people start to get ideas about  _ singing. _ ”

“What’s wrong with singing?” Annette asked.

“It’s not my birthday anymore. I went through this ordeal last week,” said Linhardt, which,  _ well _ ; even Annette had to admit he had a point.

_____

Annette didn’t see Felix for the rest of the day. This wasn’t that surprising; they didn’t have any classes in common; still, she scanned the hallways during passing periods, hoping for a familiar scowl in the corner of her peripheral vision.

If she was honest with herself, Annette wasn’t sure why she wanted to find him so badly. To clear the air, maybe, but more likely, to reassure herself she wasn’t alone. That he’d felt the electricity that morning. That  _ it  _ — whatever  _ it  _ was — wasn’t all in her head.

When the bell rang in the afternoon, Annette sat alone on the school bus and leaned her forehead against the glass. In the distance, she could just make out a Volvo as it sped out of the parking lot.

_____

No band rehearsals meant Annette actually had time to hang out with Mercedes after school.

“Did you ever read those books?” she asked over frozen yogurt. “You know. Those ones I checked out a while back?”

Mercedes looked worried. “Oh no. Are they overdue? I can run home and get them—”

Annette shook her head. “No, no, no,” she said, taking a spoonful of strawberry cheesecake swirl. “We get books for the whole semester unless someone puts one on hold. You’re fine. I was just curious.”

“Oh.” Mercedes relaxed. “Well. No, not yet. I’ve been skimming a little, though. Some of them are a little.. dense.”

“I’ll say.” Annette took another spoonful. “Wasn’t one of them about, like, criminal justice reform? It looked heavy.” She gave Mercedes a bemused look. “What’s got you so interested in mandatory minimums?”

“I needed a doorstop,” Mercedes joked, before she sobered. “I don’t know. It just looked interesting. I just wish I had more time to read.” She stirred her frozen yogurt listlessly, a small frown forming on her lips. “Maybe I’ll try and find an audiobook.”

“Do you want mine?” Annette asked. Mercedes jerked up. Annette offered her the half-empty cup of strawberry-cheesecake swirl. “It’s my fault. I should’ve told you not to pick chocolate raspberry.”

“Oh, no. Thank you,” Mercedes said. “I’m just not very hungry today. I think I’ll take mine to go.”

Annette watched her walk away to pick up a plastic lid from the counter. Something bothered her about how long it took Mercedes to come back to their table, but she only smiled at her friend and said nothing.

_____

That night, Felix finally texted back.

Annette was scrolling through her phone in the bath. It was a bad habit, and one Mama always cautioned her against, but one Annette couldn't seem to break. When her screen lit up with a new notification, she nearly dropped her phone into the bubbles

It was a link to a Buzzfeed quiz; something called “Choose One ABBA Song to Get Rid Of and We’ll Tell You Your Inner Age.”

_ this quiz is bullshit _

_ why does picking fernando over sos mean i’m 55 _

Annette stared at her phone. So that was how he wanted to play it, then? Pretending nothing had happened? Fine. She could do that. She could be normal. She’d be the most normal  _ fucking _ person, this side of kingdom come.

She texted back:

_ 1) why are you on buzzfeed _

_ 2) fernando over SOS???? are you a ROBOT. do you have a SOUL _

_ 3) taking a bath. will take the quiz later get ur bets in now!! how old will i be... _

The reply came quickly:

_ this quiz thinks i’m middle-aged. doesn’t seem like there’s a science _

Annette started to type a response, but decided against it. After staring at her phone for a long moment, she turned it off, placed it on the side of the tub, and sank beneath the water.

_____

“Dedue said to tell you he wishes they live-streamed the concert,” Ashe reported the next day at lunch. He took a bit of his sandwich, and slurred through a mouthful of bread, “Oh, and also, he said to remind you he’ll help with your French homework if you want.”

“That’s nice of him,” said Annette, torn between feeling grateful for the offer and slightly miffed at the idea that Dedue thought she needed help with her homework. “What’s he been up to, lately? I feel like I’ve missed out on the latest updates.”

“Not really. He’s been busy. School, school, school. Plus, you know, his sister’s birthday is next month, so we’ve been talking about what he should cook, and that’s a whole  _ thing _ ,” said Ashe. “I mean, we still Facetime every Sunday, but sometimes, he falls asleep on the phone.”

“Why? Do you keep forgetting about time zones?” Annette teased. 

Ashe blushed. ‘That was one time,” he said. “I don’t know. I think he just works too hard. I keep telling him, if you’re tired, just tell me about it, but he doesn’t. He never does. He’s just… Dedue’s just so—”

"Dedue?” Annette supplied.

“Yeah,” Ashe grumbled. He picked at the crusts of his sandwich. “I don’t know. We talk about it, but I just can’t help, I don’t know. Feeling like a bad boyfriend sometimes.”

It was such a sudden turn that Annette felt thrown. “What? No way. What’s got you thinking that?” 

Ashe shrugged. Annette’s eyes narrowed. “If someone said something,” she threatened. “You just say the word and we can totally sic Lysithea on them. Like a tiny bloodthirsty chihuahua. They’ll never see it coming.”

“Really? I think she’s more of a pomeranian,” said Ashe. “It’s the hair, you know?”

Annette gave him a look. Ashe sighed heavily.

“No,” he said, staring down at his plastic lunch tray. “Nevermind. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” said Annette gently. “I get what you’re saying. Or, at least, I think I do.”

Ashe shook his head. “It’s just like—do you ever feel like that? Like, wow, this person is the coolest person alive, and he’s choosing to date me? And you think one day, maybe not now, he’s gonna wake up and realize, wow, I deserve so much better.”

“Ashe,” Annette said sharply. “Stop it. Stop it right now.”

Ashe glanced up from his tray, a slightly dazed look in his eye. “What—?”

“You’re spiraling,” said Annette. “You’re the nicest person  _ alive _ , okay? And Dedue clearly thinks you’re the best, because Dedue’s the best, and people don’t schedule Facetimes with their long-distance boyfriends if they don’t actually want to date them, okay?” She sighed. “Just… just talk to him if you’re really that worried, but if you’re a  _ bad boyfriend,  _ I’m an Olympic athlete.”

Ashe stared at her, unblinking, before a slow smile dawned on his face. “I’ll try,” he said. “Thanks. Wow, you’re really good at this. How are you so good at this?”

Annette made a noncommittal gesture. “I read a lot of books,” she said. “Miscommunication just drives me bananas. It’s like,  _ talk to each other, _ dummies.”

“Yeah,” said Ashe, taking another bite of his sandwich. “Too bad real life can’t work like books, huh? Instead of all this messy dating stuff, we could just have, like, our one perfect person.”

Annette twisted off the cap of her green tea and took a long, slow sip from the bottle. “I dunno if I’m ready to meet my soulmate,” she said. “I wanna be someone who likes grown-up cereal more than Lucky Charms when it happens. I’m not quite mature enough for that yet.”

_____

When Annette came home from school, a new bag of cat food sat on the kitchen table, along with two crisp fives and a note that read: “Work until nine. Scheduled a pizza delivery @ 6. Money’s for tips. Please feed Binx & Mimi (you know they get grouchy when they’re hungry) Love, Mom xxx.” 

Annette set the note down on the kitchen table and opened the bag of food. ‘“Kitties!” She yelled over her shoulder, as she reached to fill up their identical bowls. “Dinner Time!”

While she waited for the pizza to arrive, Annette scrolled listlessly through her phone, opening apps only to immediately close them again. Dozens of unread emails cluttered her inbox, but the thought of reading them only made her anxious. Then there were the texts she hadn’t responded to; the photos she hadn’t ‘liked’; the posts she hadn’t read. Annette occasionally found herself gripped with the desire to delete every trace of her online presence. She cued up a playlist instead.

An angry, snarling song filled her ears; the type of loud, bitter music that girls like her didn’t listen to. Girls like her, who marked each new year with a new dated planner and wrote in their assignments in colorful gen pen; girls who wore ribbons in their hair and lacy bralettes underneath their school uniforms; girls who cried watching dog food commercials. Girls like that didn’t need music like this.

And maybe Annette didn’t need it, but she couldn’t turn away, either. She kept listening to the screaming woman with her voice like sandpaper. She turned up the volume and felt the pulse of the drums rattle her bones.

When the song ended, Annette listened to another, and another, and another, as her music library shuffled through her playlist. At some point after the pizza arrived, Mimi wandered in from the kitchen. She hopped up on the couch and curled up on Annette’s chest, purring comfortably. Annette reached a hand through her long, white coat, and stroked her fur sleepily. She closed her eyes; thought of bass guitars and passenger seats, and then, as she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, she thought of nothing at all.

_____

Annette woke to the sound of keys in the door and the feeling of tiny paws digging into her skin as Mimi launched herself off of the couch. The room was dark. Annette glanced up at the neon clock below the TV, which read  _ 9:06 _ . The red glow of the numbers seemed downright accusational.

“Annette?” Mama called. “I’m home.”

Annette sat up quickly (too quickly) and winced, rubbing the back of her neck with her hand. She’d fallen asleep with her headphones in, and they’d left a faint red imprint where the wire had stretched across the underside of her jaw. She pressed her fingers to the mark, wincing.

‘I’m in here, Mama,” she answered. Her body felt stiff as she stretched her arms above her head in an attempt to shake off the post-nap fog. “Are you hungry? There’s leftover pizza in the fridge. Or I could heat up some soup if you want. Or maybe some spaghetti?”

“That’s okay, sweetpea.” There was a faint jingling as Mama hung her keys on the hook by the front door. “I’m not hungry right now. I can eat later. Did you feed the cats?”

“Of course,” said Annette. “With a little bit of canned tuna on top.”

“Tuna? Aren’t  _ you  _ lucky girls,” Mama cooed. “You like it when you get tuna. Yes, you do. _ Yes you do _ .” From the foyer came the sounds of wet, sloppy kisses and a chorus of indignant meowing. “And the litterbox?” Mama called, slipping off her nursing clogs by the front door.

“Oh,” said Annette, a little guiltily. “I forgot about that, sorry. I’ll change it right now.”

“Oh, no need. I’ll do it.” Her feet padded down the hallway; the cats’ collars jingled as they followed at her heels. Annette wondered if they’d latched onto the word ‘tuna’ and were now hoping for more. “How was school? Anything exciting?”

_ Define ‘exciting’ _ , Annette thought. A pop quiz in Calculus. A test in history. New choir music to learn. Ashe and Lysithea’s good-natured bickering at lunch. Spotting Sylvain on her way to French and waving, a little self-consciously, before he waved back. Dimitri sitting next to her in English, the two of them pouring over  _ Jane Eyre.  _ Ingrid smiling at her in the hallway. The growing realization that they were  _ friends _ . All of them; these people she’d thought were so impossibly cool and out of touch, wanted to be her  _ friends.  _

At some point, Annette would have to stop being so surprised by this, but she wasn’t there yet.

“Not much,” she admitted. “Just school. Tests and homework; homework and tests. How was your shift?”

“Oh, fine. Work and paperwork; paperwork and work. ” Mama said breezily, as she appeared in the living room. She reached over to turn on the overhead lamp, which flickered on without any warning. Annette shut her eyes, but she was too late, and she winced at the sudden influx of light.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I thought you were in the kitchen,” Mama apologized. She glanced at Annette with worry. “What are you doing here in the dark?”

“I took a little nap,” Annette admitted. “Well, not a  _ little _ nap. A big nap. But I’m okay. Just sleepy, that’s all.”

Mama stared at her, unconvinced. She sat down next to Annette on the couch and pressed a cool hand to her forehead. “If you’re feeling sick, you should stay home tomorrow. It’s flu season. Some people don’t show symptoms for 48 hours.”

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” Annette protested. “I have tests tomorrow. You’re off the clock. Nurse mode off, please.”

Mama removed her hand from Annette’s forehead. “I might be a nurse, but I’m your mother first, missy,” she said sternly. “If you feel sick, you stay home. That’s our deal, capisce?”

“Capisce,” Annette repeated.

Mama stared at her, eyes narrowed. Annette wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but eventually, Mama relaxed. “Sweet girl,” she said. “You work so hard. Too hard, sometimes. I worry about you.”

“What’s wrong with hard work?” Annette protested. “I have to keep my grades up. My scholarship has a 3.5 GPA requirement. You can’t slack off and get those kinds of grades.”

There was another, larger component to her scholarship, though. It wasn’t a component Annette could change, and it wasn’t one she would’ve chosen for herself. Every year, at the scholarship beneficiaries dinner, she wore an American flag pinned to her uniform and reminded herself to breathe. It was a losing battle. No one ever noticed.

“No one said anything about slacking off,” said Mama. “But it’s okay to just relax, sometimes. Be a kid, while you still can.”

“I eat Lucky Charms for breakfast,” Annette said. Mama laughed, which was the intended effect. Annette hated it when Mama worried about her, which she knew was often. On some level, she understood this; they were both worriers; it was just logic to worry about your only child. Still, that didn’t mean it bothered her any less. She was grateful to see the smile return to her mom’s face.

“Point taken,” she said. “Because, we both know, grown-ups just eat disgusting corn flakes and gruel.”

“Exactly,” said Annette. And then, in an instant, a thought occurred to her. She hesitated to voice it, but she knew that, if she didn’t, it would weigh on her until she asked. 

“Speaking of food—” she started, and Mama’s brow furrowed in confusion. Annette swallowed. “For Thanksgiving. Next week,” she explained. “Is— is Dad going to— Will he be able to Skype in, or—”

Mama said nothing. The wedding ring on her finger, a small diamond set in a white-gold band, glinted in the low light. She’d been wearing it less often, lately, Annette noticed. Once, when the sky was pink and the dewdrops still lingered on the grass, Annette had woken to the sound of her mother crying. She’d tiptoed into her parents’ bedroom to find Mama curled up in the fetal position on the bed. She’d curled up beside her, and two of them had fallen asleep together beneath a fortress of blankets.

They didn’t talk about Dad very often. When they did, it was always in the vaguest possible terms. Like they were capturing a moonbeam. Like they were summoning a ghost.

Mama reached over and wrapped Annette in her arms. “No, ladybug. He’s too busy right now.” She stroked Annette’s hair, pushing her bangs behind her ears, and gently kissed her forehead. “We’ll have a nice Thanksgiving, just the two of us, okay? Lots of pumpkin pie, and sweet potatoes, and all the cranberry sauce you can eat.”

The last time Dad had been home for Thanksgiving, Annette had been twelve years old. She’d spent most of the afternoon sulking; Dad had decided to try out a new recipe for stuffing, and it had made her gag. She should’ve been more grateful. She should’ve eaten every bite. If only she’d known how soon he’d be gone.

“The good stuff from the can?” Annette asked, her voice muffled against Mama’s nursing scrubs. 

She felt Mama nod. “Of course. And we’ll get up early to watch the parade, and then the dog show, like we always do.”

“What about the cats?” Annette asked. “They hate watching dogs on TV. Binx gets twitchy.”

She expected Mama to laugh at that, but her mom only clutched her tighter, so tightly that Annette felt like her bones might break. Her nails dug into the flesh of Annette’s arms.

When Mama pulled out of the hug, her eyes were wet. With a start, Annette realized hers were, too.

“Sweet, precious girl,” Mama said at last. “My lucky ladybug. What would I ever do without you?”

_____

Felix was waiting for Annette when French class let out. The last class before the holiday weekend had most of the school in a buzz of excitement, and Annette was no exception. Amidst the noise of the hallway, she almost walked past him before he caught her by the backpack strap and jerked her to a stop.

“Oof,” She said. “Hey, what was that for? ‘Hey, Annette, wait up’ would’ve worked just fine.”

“I called your name three times,” Felix said. Annette had no proof of this, but she didn’t have any proof  _ against  _ this, either. She decided to let it slide. “Got a minute?”

“Um, kind of,” she said, with a pointed glance up at the hallway clock. “I have pottery club. Can you make it fast?”

Felix managed a weird, strained smile. “No promises, but I’ll —” He seemed nervous. Annette couldn’t imagine why. “I can try. Um, so—”

And maybe it was the stress of thinking about all the homework she had due after the break, or maybe it was the aching muscles in her back from carrying around a metric ton of textbooks, or the ridiculousness of this charade of normalcy that they were performing for an invisible audience, but Annette was, abruptly, at her wit’s end.

“Okay,  _ that’s it, _ ” she snapped. “Who are you, and what have you done with Felix? Is this an  _ Invasion of the Bodysnatchers _ -type deal? Polyjuice potion? Are you a clone?”

Felix’s eyes widened in surprise. “What?” 

“Because whoever you are, you’re not Felix,” Annette continued. “Because Felix is weird, but not  _ this  _ weird. Not this—” She waved a hand aimlessly. “ _ Whatever  _ this is. So, my two options are either you’re not  _ you,  _ or something’s going on and you’re not telling me about it.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And out of those two options, I like Monster Felix a whole lot better than thinking one of my friends is mad at me and won’t tell me why.”

Felix stared at her. “You’re insane,” he muttered. “You’re  _ actually  _ insane.”

“Am I?” Annette snapped. Around them, the hallway had mostly emptied out, save for a few stragglers, who glanced over at the two of them with interest. Annette lowered her voice. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks an awful lot like I did something to hurt you, and I can’t—I can’t handle—” Her voice trembled, and she shook her head. “So, spill. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Replaced by aliens? Doppelgangers? Or are you still mad at me for what happened in your car, and you won’t—”

“Annette—” Felix breathed.

She closed her mouth. He was looking at her with an implacable expression. It made her uneasy.

“What?” She snapped.

The hallway was completely empty by this point. The two of them were inches apart. Close enough that Annette could see the freckles on Felix’s nose; the flecks of gold in his amber eyes; the long lashes that blinked, slowly, steadily, repeatedly. 

“I’m not mad,” Felix said quietly. 

The strange thing was, she believed him. “So, then what?” She asked. “You’ve been a real dick lately.”

“I know,” Felix admitted. “And I’m shit at apologies, but I’m—I’m sorry. That’s not—” He breathed in, and then out, in a slow, shuddering breath. “I’m glad,” he said quietly. “That I told you.”

Annette wanted to stay mad at him. She’d spent the better part of two weeks worrying about what she could’ve done or said differently; if he regretted coming out to her; if she’d done something wrong by coming out to him, too. He deserved to stew a little longer. She wanted to make him stew a little longer.

The thing was, though, Felix just looked so tired that Annette felt herself soften against her will.

“I’m your friend, Felix,” she said. “Friends trust each other. If something’s bothering you, I wanna know about it. That’s what friends are  _ for. _ ”

Felix swallowed again. His jaw worked, but at last, he nodded. 

Annette exhaled, feeling as though finally a storm had passed. “So,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “What did you want to tell me about?”

“Oh,” said Felix. “That. Right. Dimitri wanted me to tell you we’re doing,” He winced, and then, as if the word physically pained him, muttered, “Bandsgiving.”

“Bandsgiving?” Annette said. “Is that like— oh, what’s it called…”

“Friendsgiving?” Felix supplied, looking once again like he was in immense pain. “Basically. We do it every year. Dunno why we call it ‘Bandsgiving’ though,” he muttered darkly, “since Dorothea invited herself a few years ago, and she just  _ keeps showing up like a cockroach. _ ” 

“So it’s the four of you, plus Dorothea, plus…” Annette trailed off. “Anyone else?”

Felix shook his head. “Just us. You can invite someone. Your friend— from the diner, if you want.”

It occurred to Annette that Felix meant Mercedes. “She’s visiting family up north,” she explained. “But I’ll be there. Do I bring anything? Ooh, I’ve never been to a Friendsgiving before. This is so exciting.”

“Manage your expectations a little,” said Felix. “It’s just leftovers. Nothing fancy.”

“I don’t need fancy,’ said Annette. “Plus, Mom and I are doing Thanksgiving turkey, so I’ll take anything. Speaking of, is that a…  _ no  _ on bringing something?”

Felix shrugged. “Whatever you want,” he said. “It’s Friday at five. My house. I’ll text you the address.”

“Sure. Okay. I’ll just bring whatever we have,” said Annette. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

“Cool,” repeated Felix. 

The two of them stared at each other in complete silence, before Felix glanced up at the hallway clock. “Didn’t you say you had some—’

Pottery club.  _ Shit, right.  _ “Right. Gotta jet. Those pots don’t cook themselves. Or, kiln. Not cook.  _ Anyway _ .” She was babbling.  _ Again _ . “See you Friday!” 

_____

Felix’s house looked older than Annette’s. It was smaller than Dimitri’s, but that wasn’t saying much. Annette stared up at the imposing brick facade, a trellis of ivy spiraling along the garden wall. Felix’s Volvo was parked in the driveway, along with Sylvain’s BMW and a small Honda Civic that must’ve been Dorothea’s. Annette stared at the row of cars, which, aside from the Civic, she could never hope to afford.

Sometimes, she forgot how  _ rich  _ most of her classmates were. Dimitri was one thing. They’d been calling him “the prince” since they were  _ ten.  _ This— this felt different.

Annette stared down at her forest green dress, her black kitten heels, and the humble homemade cherry pie in her hands. She noticed, for the first time, the fraying thread at her hem, and the scuff on her shoes, and the uneven strudel breading along the pie crust, and she felt small.

Annette looked back up at the house and took a deep breath; reminded herself that they were all friends. Friends, as impossible as that might’ve sounded. Friends who were happy to eat whatever she baked. Hadn’t she just given Felix a lecture about how much it hurt to assume the worst of people? She’d be a hypocrite if she didn’t follow her own advice. She could do this.

She knocked.

“It’s open,” called a voice from within. 

“I have a pie,” Annette yelled. “My hands are—”

She hadn’t finished her sentence when the door flew open. “Did you bake that?” asked Felix. The top two buttons of his polo shirt were undone, revealing the edge of his clavicle. Annette wasn’t sure if she’d ever get used to seeing him, or the rest of the band, out of school uniforms. It felt positively  _ indecent.  _

She nodded. “It’s cherry. We had pumpkin yesterday. I hope that’s okay.”

“S’fine,” said Felix, who still hadn’t moved. He seemed a little dazed.

God, he was so  _ weird.  _ Annette waited, a little self-consciously. She cleared her throat. “So, are you gonna invite me in, or—”

That seemed to shake Felix out of whatever weird stupor he was in. He stepped aside, letting Annette into his house, and pushed the door shut behind her.

It was what Mama would’ve politely dubbed a “nice house.” High ceilings, wooden floors. A large central staircase spanned two stories twisted upwards into the heavens. A silver chandelier swung delicately overhead, casting a warm glow over the foyer. Hilda and Claude’s houses were the size of castles, but Felix’s house  _ felt  _ like one.

“You have a beautiful house,” Annette breathed. 

Felix stiffened. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Everyone’s in the dining room. I’ll take your pie—”

“Wait. No. Hang on, I can bring it,” said Annette. “Just—can you hold it for a sec—” She thrust the pie into Felix’s hands and bent down to unfasten her heels. “Actually, wait, come here, I can’t balance—”

Felix dutifully waited as Annette balanced a hand on his shoulder. “You could just kneel down to do that.”

“Not in this dress I can’t,” said Annette, staring at the floor as she unfastened one shoe, and then the other. “One wrong move, and everyone’s getting an up-close-and-personal look at my upper thighs.”

Felix said nothing. 

Annette stepped out of her shoes. Her hand still rested on his shoulder, but without the added height of her heels, she was suddenly aware of how much taller he was than she was. Had he always been this much taller? Why hadn’t she noticed? Had she never been close enough to notice before?

Well. At any rate, Annette was  _ very _ aware of it now. With a reluctance that she didn’t understand, she let her hand drop back to her side.

“All set,” she said. “I can take the pie back now.”

Felix gave her a look. “I’ve got it,” he said. “I’d be a terrible fucking host if I made you carry your own pie.”

“That’s not a rule,” Annette protested as she followed after him. “Since when is that a rule?”

“It’s a rule now,” said Felix. “My house, my rules. That’s how this works.”

Annette rolled her eyes. “Who died and made you emperor of rules,” she muttered as she followed him down the hallway.

The hallway was lined with framed photos. Annette glanced at them as she passed: Felix and Dimitri, roughly age five; an older version of Felix holding a high school diploma, who Annette assumed was the infamous Glenn; Glenn and Felix in their backyard, sword-fighting with pool noodles.

“Pay no attention to those,” said Felix, without turning around. “They came with the house. We can’t figure out how to get rid of ‘em. We’ve tried everything.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Annette. “I think they’re sweet.” She studied more of the photos: Felix, Dimitri, Ingrid, and Sylvain lounging poolside; a sepia-toned wedding photo; Felix, Glenn, and who Annette realized must’ve been their father; a photo of a woman holding a toddler in her arms—

Annette stopped.

“They’re not sweet. They’re embarrassing—” Felix continued, but Annette wasn’t listening. Her eyes were trained on the photo of the woman, whose dark hair and warm smile seemed both strange and familiar. 

Felix had the same eyebrows, the same ears, the same cheekbones as his father. But his hair, his eyes, his smile— those were all his mother’s.

Realizing she was no longer following him, Felix stopped walking. “What are—” he started, before he cut himself off abruptly. 

In the distance, Annette could hear laughter; Dorothea’s, probably. Whatever playlist they’d cued up was thudding through the speakers at a breakneck pace. There was the faint clinking of cutlery. 

“Oh,” Felix said softly.

“She’s beautiful,” Annette breathed. “Is that—”

Felix took a half-step towards the photo. “My mom. Yeah.”

“No,” said Annette. “I mean, is that you? The baby.”

Felix stared at the photo, unblinking. Sunlight streamed through the clouds overhead, and the two of them lay on a blanket in the grass. The woman—Felix’s mother—was laughing. The baby in her arms squealed with delight, reaching one tiny fist up at the camera. This was happiness, Annette thought. This photo, right here. There was no other word to describe it. 

“Yeah,” said Felix, after a long moment of silence. “That’s me.”

Annette had no idea what to say. “You look just like her,” she said quietly.

Felix made a strange, choked-up sound in the back of his throat. “You think?” he said.

Annette nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I do.”

They stared at the photo for so long that Annette felt the image burn into her retinas. “I like her shirt,” Annette said lamely, turning around to look at Felix. “That’s a really nice color.”

Felix swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, tearing his eyes away from the photo. His voice seemed to echo. It was hollow-sounding; dull. “She used to wear it all the time when she was painting.”

“Oh, yeah?” Annette said, hoping her voice was light; cheerful. “She was an artist?”

Felix nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “She used to do this feminist, avant-garde shit. Lots of screaming women and big diagonal lines. I never understood it, but she loved it, so,” he shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Do you have any of her work lying around?” Annette asked. “I’d love to see it if—”

Felix turned around so abruptly that Annette cut herself off mid-sentence.

“—or not,” she finished weakly. 

Felix was staring at her. For a moment, Annette worried she’d said the wrong thing again. Should she have said that? She was genuinely curious, but maybe she’d overstepped. Maybe this was one of those situations where it was one thing to offer and another thing entirely to ask. Maybe she should’ve just kept her stupid mouth  _ shut.  _

“Car crash,” said Felix.

Annette knew she was staring. She couldn’t help it. “What?”

“Car crash,” Felix repeated. “That’s how she died. I know you’re wondering. People always wonder what happened to the dead mom.” His lip curled. “So, there. Now you don’t have to ask.”

Annette swallowed. She wanted to say she wasn’t planning on being so gauche, but she doubted Felix would believe her. If anything, it might just make things worse. “I’m sorry,” she said, once she trusted herself to speak again.

“They always say that, don’t they?” Felix mused. “‘I’m sorry.’ What are you sorry about? It’s not your fault.”

“I know it’s  _ not my fault, _ ” Annette said. “That’s not why—” 

“Then  _ why _ ?” 

_ Because you’re hurting _ , she wanted to say.  _ Because you’re hurting, and there’s nothing I can do about it. As much as I want to, I can’t carry it for you. I don’t know how. I wish I knew how, but I don’t. I can’t. That’s why I'm sorry. I’m sorry I’m not strong enough. _

“I don’t know,” she said instead. “Because it’s just—it’s just something people say. I don’t know. _ I don’t know _ .”

Felix sighed heavily. He was still holding her pie, Annette realized. Not that he would’ve had any place to put it down, but still; the optics of having such a serious conversation while one of them was clutching a cherry pie in his hands was downright surreal.

“Are you okay?” Annette asked. “Do you need a minute, or—”

“No. I’m fine,” Felix said. He was blinking a little too much. His movements were stiff; jerky. “It was ten years ago.”

(This was the point where Annette should’ve said something. Something better. Something about how she knew what it was like to lose someone and carry the weight of that last horrible goodbye. How the unsaid words hung around your throat like an albatross. How she understood, better than most people, how “I’m fine” could feel like a shroud. It wasn’t the same, but she could—)

But there was the truth: it wasn’t the same. She could pretend to understand, but she never would. Her mind raced for a subject change,  _ any  _ subject change.

“You were an  _ adorable _ baby,” she offered. “I’m jealous. You know how some babies just look like tiny gremlins? And whenever you see a photo, you’re supposed to be like,  _ aww,  _ because it’s a baby, but it’s just a little troll? I was one of those. Just, the  _ ugliest  _ baby. Seriously, Mom has the whole photo album from when I was little and it’s like, all freckles and this little itty-bitty fuzz of hair. I look like a carrot. Or, like, a baby goose. It’s  _ awful _ .”

For a moment, Felix said nothing, leaving Annette to wonder if she’d seriously misread the situation. Then, at last, the slightest trace of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Are you trying to distract me?”

“Maybe,” said Annette tentatively, a tiny flare of hope building in her chest. “It depends. Is it working?”

Felix gave one last glance to the photo before he turned back to Annette. “You’re really something, you know that?”

“What?” Annette’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Felix shook his head. “Nevermind,” he said. “C’mon, carrots. You coming, or what? Your pie’s getting cold.”

“It was already co— _ hey! _ ” Annette’s cheeks reddened. “That story was not me giving you  _ permission  _ to call me  _ carrots. _ ”

“Sure,” Felix said. “Whatever you say.”

He had his back to her, but Annette had the strange feeling he was smiling.

_____

A chorus of  _ “Annette! You’re here!”  _ greeted the two of them as Felix pushed open the door to the dining room. 

Like the rest of the house, it had been done in a warm, Mediterranean style. An enormous stone fireplace stretched from the wooden floor to the domed brick ceiling, from which an ivory chandelier descended. Landscape paintings hung from the cream-colored walls The length of the room was dominated by a long wooden table, where, contrary to Felix’s promise, an enormous amount of food was piled high.

Annette shot Felix a look as he placed her pie on the table. “I thought you said to ‘manage my expectations’,” she said, dropping into the empty chair between Dimitri and Dorothea. “This is enough to feed a small army.” 

Felix took a seat across from her next to Sylvain, who helpfully supplied, “Or Ingrid. And even then—”

Ingrid punched him in the shoulder. 

“Ow,” pouted Sylvain, rubbing his arm. “I know this macho jock thing is how you show affection, but can you cool it with the punching? No violence on a holiday.”

“Ugh,” said Ingrid. “A bullshit, capitalist  _ nightmare _ , you mean. Black Friday’s just another way for the fat cats to make their blood money off the—” She broke off. Felix and Sylvain were giving her a strange look.

“Well, that’s just adorable,” said Sylvain.

“What?” Ingrid snapped.

Dimitri took the opportunity to pass Annette a plate. On Annette’s opposite side, Dorothea took a forkful of mashed potatoes from the serving dish. Her cheeks were pink.

“You’re starting to sound like Dorothea,” Sylvain explained. “Our favorite Dirty Red. Speaking of  _ red _ —”

“What,” said Ingrid, blushing furiously as she stabbed a piece of turkey. “Does she have a monopoly or something? I can’t hate Black Friday, too? And, what, since when does hating all this consumerist shit mean I’m—”

Sylvain grinned. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“Do you wanna get punched again?” Ingrid snapped. “Because this is  _ exactly _ how you get punched again.”

“Hey Annette,” said Dimitri. “What’s new with you?”

Annette served herself an enormous piece of the pie. “Oh, not much. Mom and I started putting up the Christmas decorations yesterday. Just the lights so far, but we’re digging out the rest of the stuff from the garage this weekend. Not the tinsel, though.” She shuddered. “Two years ago, Binx had  _ ideas  _ about the forbidden toy and we got  _ very  _ familiar with the emergency vet.” 

“Poor Binx,” said Dimitri sympathetically.

“And then there was last year,” Annette said, shaking her head. “When he decided it was his new mission to climb the tree. He made it halfway up before,  _ bam,  _ the entire thing just tipped over. Mom was so mad.”

“Wait, are you talking about your  _ cat _ ?” said Dorothea, her eyes bright. “I need pictures.  _ Now _ .”

Annette fished around in her purse for her phone. The latest photo she’d taken of Binx was a mirror selfie of the two of them: Binx was yowling in distress as Annette, holding him up to the mirror like a human baby, kissed the top of his head. “He’s the dumbest cat alive,” she said, passing the phone to Dorothea. “Also, he looks like he’s yelling, but he’s fine. He just likes to complain.”

“Sounds like someone else we know,” muttered Felix. 

“Aww,  _ Annette _ ,” Dorothea cooed. “This is the cutest thing  _ ever. _ Sylvain, you’ve gotta see this.”

“I didn’t know you were such a big cat person,” said Annette, passing her phone around the table, although this was brought into question when Dorothea added,

“No, silly. I’m talking about you.” She took a sip of her sparkling cider. “I mean, your cat’s cute, but you’re downright  _ adorable.  _ You need to send me this, okay? I’m framing it.”

“What? No. I’m really not. I mean—” Annette stuttered, unsure if Dorothea was joking. Felix met Dorothea’s eyes from across the table. Without looking at the phone, he passed it back to Annette with single-minded intensity. By normal standards, he would’ve looked irritated, but this was Felix. He was probably just bored. 

“So,” said Dimitri, clearly trying to clear the air, “How  _ is  _ your mom doing?”

Annette gave him a grateful look. “She’s good,” She offered, taking a bite of cherry pie. “Lots of work, but we’re doing okay. She says you should come over for dinner sometime.” 

“Was that your mom who dropped you off today?” Sylvain asked. Annette nodded. Sylvain let out a low whistle and turned to Dimitri. “Dima, my man, if you waste that invite, I’m going to kill you. The woman’s a  _ MILF.  _ You don’t turn down dinner with a woman like that.”

“MILF?” Dimitri mouthed, raising his eyebrows.

“Can we  _ not  _ talk about how hot my  _ mom  _ is?” Annette begged. “Please?”

“What, you don’t think she looks good?” said Sylvain. 

“She’s my  _ mom,”  _ Annette said. “I think she’s beautiful. But that doesn’t mean I wanna hear you call her a  _ MILF.” _

“Will someone please explain what MILF means?” Dimitri asked. “Mother… Mother, I’m… Mother is...”

“Great work, genius,” said Ingrid. “You broke Dimitri.”

“So, Annette, how’s your dad doing?” said Sylvain. “I feel like I don’t see him around. What’s he up to?”

Annette had to remind herself that Sylvain didn’t mean anything by it. Sylvain had never met her father; had never borne witness to the saga of her early middle school years. She’d been a good girl; a good daughter; a good  _ dog,  _ she thought bitterly. She’d never said anything. No one knew anything.

No one except Dimitri, who was trying not to look at her. Annette’s fingers tensed around her fork.

“He travels a lot for work,” she explained lightly, which was true enough that it slipped glibly off her tongue. “So it’s me and mom, most of the time.” All of the time included most of the time, didn’t it? That wasn’t a lie, either. “Well, us and the cats,” she added. “And they run the house, really.”

“Sounds like Felix,” said Sylvain. “Well. Except for the cats.”

Now that he mentioned it, Annette  _ had _ noticed their motley crew was home alone. It had felt a little strange, considering it was a holiday, but she’d been, well, a little distracted. 

“Oh, really?” She asked. “Does he work a lot, too? Your dad, I mean?”

The question was directed at Felix, but he was staring down at his plate. Dimitri swooped in to answer. “He does something in DC, right? With the State Department?”

For a second, Annette didn’t breathe right. Had she known that? She must’ve. It must’ve come up. There was no way that she hadn’t—

_ Breathe _ , she commanded herself.  _ You’re acting like a psycho. No one likes a psycho.  _

_ Just breathe. _

“Whatever it is, it’s boring,” yawned Sylvain. “Can we get back to the important things, please? Like hot relatives and where to find them?”

“Slut,” said Ingrid affectionately. 

Annette could’ve imagined it, but it seemed like Felix’s posture relaxed; like he’d let out a long, silent exhale of his own. It was possible, at least. Maybe Annette was seeing things. 

“No, come on. Sylvain’s right. What about DILFS?” Dorothea said. “Or BILFs? I think we should expand the market a little bit. Be a little more equal opportunity.”

“Don’t say it,” said Felix, looking up from his plate. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

“I didn’t say anything,” said Dorothea, light, carefree, and smiling sweetly. “But since you brought it up, how is Hot Glenn doing in New York? Lonely? Need a shoulder to cry on?”

“Quit hitting on Glenn,” said Felix. 

“I’m just asking. It’s a simple question.” Dorothea placed a hand over her heart. “My heart just aches to think of poor, sweet Glenn, all alone in the big city. Adrift, without a soul in the world to care for him.”

“Will you cut it out?” said Felix. “It’s never gonna happen. He has a girlfriend.”

“Never say never,  _ mon cher, _ ” Dorothea grinned. “And besides. Girlfriends aren’t wives. It don’t mean a thing if he ain’t got that ring.”

Ingrid stabbed another piece of turkey with her fork. Her jaw worked. 

“Jesus Christ,” said Felix. “Do you ever  _ stop _ ?”

“Wait, guys, hang on. I’m feeling so left out,” Sylvain protested, mock-indignant. “Everyone else has hot relatives they get to White Knight, and I don’t. What do I have to contribute? This conversation is  _ very _ isolating.”

“Doesn’t that mean  _ you’re _ the hot relative?” Annette asked. 

Sylvain thought for a moment before he brightened. “It does, doesn’t it?” he said. “Hmm. What to do… what to do?”

“White Knight yourself?” Dimitri offered innocently. 

“Careful. I hear if you White Knight yourself too often, you go blind,” said Sylvain, causing Dorothea to let out a loud cackle. 

Dimitri looked confused. “What—?”

“So, Dimitri,” said Annette, “I was thinking. Do we have any news about semifinals yet? You know, like where we’re playing—”

Dimitri took a sip of water. “Have you ever been to the Adrestia?”

“That’s the theater downtown, right?” said Annette. “The goth one. The one that used to be the old speakeasy, with the weird little underground entrance?” 

( Her father had always hated the Adrestia. Hated how close it was to their home; home “easy” it was for teenagers to bribe the bouncers; hated the noise and the rabble trickling out after hours, their drunken voices pounding against his skull when he was trying to read late at night after Mama had gone to bed. 

Even thinking of it — thinking of him — was like touching her hand to the stove. 

Two fathers existed in Annette’s memory. The one she’d loved then. The one she remembered now. They bled and blurred together like a forest and the fire. Ashes all the way down. ) 

Dimitri nodded. He didn’t look happy. ‘That’s the one.”

Annette swallowed. “Wait. You’re serious? We’re really playing semifinals at a  _ goth club _ —” 

“As the grave. Pun not intended,” said Dimitri. “They host community events, too, apparently.” He let out a harsh breath of air. “ _ Lucky us. _ ”

“Wait, what’s wrong with the Adrestia?” said Dorothea, frowning. “It’s a renovated  _ speakeasy.  _ The place has so much history. Not only that, but the inside is absolutely  _ gorgeous. _ Red lighting, exposed brick, velvet seats — _ very _ Moulin Rouge.”

Dimitri took another sip of water and gave no sign he was planning on saying anything. “How do you know so much about the Adrestia?” Annette asked instead.

Dorothea shrugged loftily. “Ferdie and I went for his birthday last year. There was some band he wanted to see. What were they called?” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “The Beagles? No, that can’t be it. That’s a ridiculous name for a band. Oh, It’ll come to me later. Anyway. I’m sensing some hostility. What’s with the vendetta?”

“It’s not a vendetta,” Dimitri said heavily. “It’s just Edelgard.” 

A memory came back to Annette in flashes. Dimitri, his words slurring together.  _ She hates me. Ever since we were kids. I tried to be her friend. But she didn’t want to be friends. She just hated me.  _

_ There’s so much I don’t understand _ , Annette thought. She took a sip of her sparkling cider.

“Ugh,” said Ingrid. “God, she really ruins everything, huh?”

“Will someone  _ please _ explain?” Dorothea asked. “What does Edelgard have to do with the Adrestia? Does she  _ own  _ it? Dimitri, you’d tell us if your stepsister _ owned a goth club,  _ right?”

“She doesn’t own it,” said Dimitri, tracing his ring finger along the rim of his glass. Everyone pivoted to look at him. “But she might as well. It’s her turf. Ever since high school started, it’s been hers.”

“And, what,” said Felix, “This ‘turf war’ thing you have going on means we’re gonna pussy out of semifinals?”

“I didn’t say that,” said Dimitri, with an edge to his voice. “But that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”

Sylvain took a swig from his glass. “Here we go,” he muttered, as Felix glared at Dimitri and started in with,

“When are you gonna give this up? This Jets and Sharks shit—”

“What are you—?” Dimitri shook his head ruefully. “Of course you don’t understand. Of course. Why am I surprised?”

“Explain it to me then, genius,” said Felix, nostrils flared. “Since you’re so smart and all, how about you dumb it down for me?  _ Real _ slow, so I can understand.” 

Dimitri’s hand twitched on his fork. The two of them were sizing each other up from across the table, circling like hyenas, like apex predators, their teeth bared; hissing, they waited for the opportune moment to strike, to draw the first blood— but why? Annette knew next to nothing about Dimitri’s family, and even less about Felix’s. 

Whatever this was, it seemed old. It seemed personal.

Someone needed to do something. That someone might as well be her. 

Annette leaped in to change the subject. “Wait.  _ Felix _ . Did you just say  _ Jets and Sharks?  _ That’s a  _ West Side Story  _ thing.”

“Um,” said Felix, blinking slowly. Annette was relieved to see he looked thrown. Anything was better than the rumbling, barely-contained blood rage of only a few seconds earlier. “Yeah, I guess it is. Why’s it matter?”

“It wouldn’t,” Annette said, trying to keep a straight face. “If a certain  _ someone  _ hadn’t made such a big deal about how  _ horrible  _ musical theater is and how he was never,  _ ever  _ going to listen to anything without—”

“Wait, Felix listens to cast recordings now?” Dorothea gasped. “Of his own free will? After  _ years _ of refusing? Annette, you  _ miracle worker.  _ Did you use a magic spell? You must’ve. There’s no other explanation.”

Annette shrugged. “No spells. I’m just a tastemaker, I guess.”

For some reason, this caused Sylvain to let out a loud guffaw. “Oh, I’m sure,” he said. 

Annette’s brow furrowed. “What?”

Felix made an incredulous, sputtering noise that sounded like a car backfiring. “I didn’t—she didn’t—  _ fuck _ , will you just  _ shut up _ ?”

To an outside observer, Felix might look irritated. Annette wasn’t sure how well she knew Felix, but she thought she knew him well enough to understand that this was more complicated. His fingers tensed around his fork, but it almost looked like he was—

No. It must’ve been a trick of the light.

“Oh, fine,” said Dorothea at last, sighing petulantly. “No need to keep antagonizing Felix. Not when he’s so graciously invited us over for this post-Thanksgiving feast.”

“Can you ever just… talk like a normal person?” Ingrid said.

Dorothea rested her chin on her hand and gazed at Ingrid through her lashes. “Normal is a setting on the dryer, my love.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes, but it was a half-hearted attempt. Annette bit back a smile and took another bite of her pie. 

“Wow,” said Felix. “Do you have any other slogans from, like, fucking Hot Topic?”

“Speaking of Hot Topic,” Sylvain said. “Hey, Fe, where’s your middle school yearbook hiding?”

“What happened to ‘not antagonizing the host’?” said Felix.

Sylvain waved a hand. “That was Dorothea’s schtick. I never promised anything. While we’re all here, I say we dig out the old thing, show Annette a few photos of what we were all like in our embarrassing brace-face days —”

“You don’t have to do that,” Annette said before she could stop herself. “I remember.”

Ingrid frowned. “Wait, how do you remember?”

“We went to the same middle school,” Annette managed to get out. “I have those yearbooks back home, too.” 

(The sixth-grade yearbook was the one she looked through the most. Dimitri’s writing took up the entire inside cover. At the very bottom, he’d drawn the two of them as stick-figures, peeking out from the door of the TARDIS at a sky of hastily scribbled stars. 

He’d signed the seventh-grade yearbook with “HAGS, Dimitri.” 

In eighth grade, he didn’t sign her yearbook at all.)

“But  _ I _ didn’t,” said Dorothea petulantly. “While you were all palling around at Fhirdiad Middle, I was all the way across town at Mittelfrank Day School. This is so unfair. You all have this shared nostalgia, and I’m missing out.”

“No one’s nostalgic for middle school,” Ingrid said dryly. “I think you’ll live.”

“Dorothea, why  _ were  _ you at Mittelfrank?” Annette asked. “That’s one of those— those charter schools, right? Why didn’t you go to Enbarr Middle like Ferdinand and Ed—like everyone else?”

“They had a better performing arts program,” Dorothea explained, which made sense, because Dorothea seemed like the type of vocalist who came out of the womb singing and had only stopped to breathe since. “Enbarr had a good band program and all, but they didn’t have a choir director until a few years ago.” She took a bite of cranberry sauce. “I knew what I wanted, and I didn’t want to wait for it. You know, Manuela used to teach there. Er, I mean, Ms. Casagranda.”

Dimitri’s eyes widened so quickly that Annette worried they’d pop out of his head. “Why are you on first-name terms with Professor Casagranda?”

Dorothea shrugged. “She wrote my recommendation for Garegg Mach. And besides, it was one of those hippy-dippy alternative schools. We called all the teachers by their first names. Something about fostering a learning environment of mutual respect, or something. You know, they called us by our first names; we called them by theirs.”

“No offense,” said Ingrid, “but that’s  _ literally _ the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. If you’re gonna do that, why not call everybody by their last names?”

“Too formal,” Dorothea explained. “I mean, this was the type of place where my English homework one night would be ‘invent a new feeling.’ Nothing about  _ explaining  _ it. Just,  _ inventing  _ one. Literally just the word. Also, sometimes we’d just go outside and sit barefoot in the grass for the whole day.”

“Are you sure this place was, like, accredited?” Ingrid asked. “Because it sounds like you accidentally joined a cult.”

“I didn’t join a _cult._ No one accidentally joins a cult.” Dorothea protested.

“Au contraire. I think that’s how most people get involved with that shit,” said Sylvain, gesturing at Dorothea with his fork. “What, you think people just go around knocking on doors like, ‘we’re here for the cult stuff’?”

“True.” Dorothea thought for a moment. “Although, to be fair, would it be so bad if I  _ did  _ accidentally join a cult? I look good in robes. And what  _ is _ cultic chanting but your garden variety theater warmups on steroids?”

Ingrid gaped at her. “I was  _ joking.  _ You didn’t  _ actually _ — tell me you  _ didn’t _ —”

“Can we get back to talking about semifinals?” Dimitri asked, folding his napkin into a neat square. “You know, like we were before we all got distracted?”

Ingrid turned to look at him. “Uh, were we?”

“We definitely were,” said Dimitri. “Someone asked something about the venue. Annette? Was that you?”

“Oh, wait, it totally was,” said Annette, crossing her knife over her fork on her empty plate. “Sorry. I spaced out. Someone said Jets and Sharks, and my brain went, whoa, musical theater, time to lose my mind.”

“Perfectly reasonable,” said Dorothea lightly. “Happens to the best of us. One time, I was listening to  _ Bare  _ and nearly crashed my car.”

Ingrid gave her a panicked look. “Oh, my god. We carpooled _. _ I let you  _ drive me here.” _

“Uh, so,” said Dimitri, “is that a yes on talking about semifinals?”

Sylvain clapped his hands together. “Dima. My man. Floor’s all yours.”

_____

Annette spent the rest of the evening in a blissful haze, letting the background conversation wash over her like a summer breeze. Mama liked to say  _ love lives at the kitchen table.  _ Annette didn’t quite understand what she meant, but whatever it was, she felt like it applied, here, somehow.

At some point in the conversation, Annette happened to look over at Felix — as if, unconsciously, she wanted to check on him. He was still scowling that trademark Felix scowl; eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, a frustrated look in his eye that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. But strangely, it didn’t seem as convincing as before. Annette couldn’t figure out why, and so she studied him, the set of his jaw, the tilt of his chin, and she wondered: was it real, this personality he had? Or was it just posturing?

As if sensing her thoughts, Felix looked up. He met her eyes from across the table. It seemed like his expression softened, very gently, before he looked away. 

_____

“So, you survived your first Bandsgiving,” Felix said to her later, as the group was milling around in the entryway making their goodbyes—Dimitri had already left with Sylvain to work on a project for statistics class. It was a Friday, but Sylvain hadn’t seemed to mind the prospect of doing homework. Annette was starting to suspect that neither of them liked being alone for too long if they could help it.

“It was nice. A little more yelling than I expected,” said Annette.

Felix made a noncommittal noise and dropped down onto an armchair. The sun had long since set; without the loud, cheerful ruckus of the group, the house felt emptier, somehow. Annette wondered if Felix felt the same way. Maybe that was why, despite his grumbling, he’d agreed to host. Maybe he didn’t want to be alone, either.

“Oh, Annette,” said Dorothea, appearing from thin air in a polished crimson peacoat, “Do you need a ride home? Me and Ingrid are leaving soon, if you wanna come with.”

Annette beamed. “Thanks for hosting,” she said to Felix. “This was a lot of fun.”

“More like a lot of noise,” Felix complained, but Annette thought she knew him well enough to know that he was bluffing. She didn’t understand why, but that was a separate issue. For now, she was one step closer to figuring out the mystery that was Felix Fraldarius. So what if she didn’t have all the clues just yet? There was still time for this girl detective to solve the case.

“Don’t worry, Felix,” Dorothea said, snapping Annette out of her Nancy Drew fantasies. “We’ll get her home safe. Promise.” 

Felix gave her a look that clearly communicated he wasn't convinced.

_____

They dropped Ingrid off first. Her house was closer to Felix’s—so close she almost could’ve walked, if it weren’t for the sharp November chill. Annette watched Ingrid sprint past the familiar cherry-colored Jeep in the driveway, her army green parka blending into the darkness as she ran up the steps. She was illuminated in the porch lights for a brief moment before she disappeared into the warmth of her house.

“You live off of Woodvale, right?” Dorothea asked, as Annette climbed gingerly over the console and slid into the front seat of the Civic.

“That’s the one,” she told Dorothea. “It’s not that far. Like, twenty minutes, tops.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” said Dorothea lightly. She fiddled with the radio, and for a long moment, the two of them said nothing. Dorothea’s slender fingers rested on the dial; today, Annette noticed, her nails were painted a light shade of blue. 

“Annette,” Dorothea said. “Can I ask you for advice about something?”

Dorothea sounded hesitant, which worried Annette. She allowed Dorothea to merge onto the highway before she turned to ask,

“Of course you can. What’s up?”

Dorothea was frowning. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel. “I have this friend,” she said. “They’re a little… I guess prickly is the right word for it. I’ve tried to get them to open up, but it doesn’t. I just.” She let out a long breath. “I don’t know what to do. I’m worried about them.”

“Oh, god, that sounds hard,” said Annette. “Are you just worried in general? Or, like, did something new happen?”

“No, not that. It’s just.” Dorothea stared straight ahead. “How do you do it? Get people to open up so easily?”

“Oh, you mean with Felix? I don’t  _ do _ anything,” said Annette earnestly. “I just, you know, talk to him. Like you do. So if that’s what you’re worried about, I wouldn’t, because I think you should just keep—”

“It’s not about Felix,” Dorothea said in a steady voice.

Annette darted a sideways glance at Dorothea. Dorothea’s hands twitched on the steering wheel. On her right hand, a rose-gold ring glinted in the low light.

For some reason, this triggered a memory from earlier in the afternoon.  _ Rose gold. Roses. Red. Our favorite Dirty Red.  _

The realization hit her like a bullet in the back. 

God, how had she been so  _ blind _ ?

Dorothea took a deep breath. “Do you want to rethink your advice?”

Her face, illuminated by the crimson glow of brake lights of the car in front of them, reminded Annette of paintings of medieval martyrs. The steely determination. The exhausted longing. The agony; the hope. 

It was too much. Annette looked away.

“I—no, I don’t think so.” Annette was at a loss for words. “Well, maybe. I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m really bad at this.”

“It’s okay,” Dorothea said quietly. “You’re not. That was good advice. It’s just—” She broke off, keeping her eyes on the road. “It’s hard. She’s complicated.”

Annette hadn’t ever thought to describe Ingrid Galatea as  _ complicated.  _ Ingrid was ambitious, straight-laced, no-nonsense, even stern, but complicated? What was complicated about  _ Ingrid _ ?

Her confusion must’ve shown on her face because Dorothea smiled wistfully. “I know, I know. It sounds crazy. What’s so complicated? But she’s— when we’re together, she shuts down, sometimes. Like I’ve gotten too close to something that she’s trying to hide.” Longing crept into her voice like ivy. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m just fooling myself.”

Annette picked at her cuticles. “How long have you—” Her voice wavered. She cleared her throat. “How long has this been going on?”

“It’s not what you think,” Dorothea said. “We’re not together. Not like that, at least. I just. I really like her.“ She took a deep breath. “I like spending time with her. I like hearing her opinions on things. I like knowing what makes her happy; what makes her angry; what makes her nervous. I like knowing her favorite flavor of gum is spearmint and she eats the cake part of cupcakes first so she can save the frosting for last. I like that I know she likes comic books and worries about the future and broke her arm skateboarding and has a lucky pair of drumsticks.” 

Dorothea swallowed. “I like that she trusts me enough to tell me when she’s upset. I like that I’m a person she trusts with that.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what we are, but I like her. That’s all. That’s all I need. That’s enough. She’s enough.”

Her headlights illuminated the empty road. Mile marker after mile marker breezed towards them along the side of the road, caught up with the Civic and then fell behind, of sight.

Annette looked up at Dorothea. “I’m—Oh, god, I’m—” Frustrated panic gripped her chest. She was useless. She should’ve had something better to say. Why couldn’t she say anything?

Dorothea wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “No, no. This is some heavy stuff to lay on you like this.” She gave a light, nervous laugh. “Have you ever considered becoming a therapist? You’re a really good listener.”

“Um, I—” Annette stuttered. “No, really, it’s okay. Are you okay?” She stared at Dorothea worriedly. “I’d give you a hug, but, you know,  _ driving a car. _ ”

“Car safety. Very important.” Dorothea gave her a watery smile. “I’m okay. You’re a sweetheart.”

Annette looked down at her hands. Neither of them said much for the rest of the drive home.

Annette broke the silence a few minutes later as they pulled into her driveway. “Hey, um, I know it’s not my place, and stop me if I say the wrong thing, but, you deserve someone great, okay? Like, I know you said you’re happy— and if you are, in the end, it’s your call, whatever you want to do. But if you ever want it, you deserve more. If you want someone who’d stand outside your house with a boombox, or write you letters every day for a year, or— or run through an airport for you, that’s what you deserve.”

“Oh, Annette,” said Dorothea. She wrapped Annette in a tight hug. “Oh _ , babe,  _ that kind of stuff only happens in the movies.”

As Dorothea drove away, Annette realized she was crying. She couldn’t understand why, or even if she was happy, sad, or somewhere in between the two. Some big, terrible, unnamable emotion swelled behind her eyes, in her bones, in her lungs, from the tips of her fingers to the soles of her feet. 

That night, she lay awake in her bed for a very long time.

_____

“Hey,” said Annette. “So I was wondering. Did Ingrid and Glenn ever actually, you know.”

It was Wednesday afternoon and Annette was sitting in the passenger seat of Felix’s car. Practices for semifinals didn’t start for another week, but Mama had hit traffic on the way home from work and Annette hadn’t been in the mood to wait around for the activity bus. She’d been expecting a little more pushback when she cornered Felix in the student lot and asked for a ride, but he’d folded easily. A little too easily, actually, but Annette wasn’t thinking about that. Not right now, when she was babbling on about something that didn’t matter.

There wasn’t any rule saying she had to talk at all, but Annette was someone whose nervous energy needed an outlet. Why was she nervous? She didn’t have anything to be nervous about. Ironically, maybe that was why.

Maybe wanted to keep her brain busy enough that she wouldn’t keep remembering Dorothea’s hands on the steering wheel, her face silhouetted in an eerie red light, her arms digging into Annette’s sides hard enough to crush her ribs; how steady her voice was as she said: “It’s enough, she’s enough.”

(It reminded Annette of a book Mama used to read to her, about a stuffed rabbit who became real. His fur was loved off; he’d lost his whiskers, his shape, most of his stuffing. But he was loved so much he became real. He was blessed. This was his happy ending.

“It’s enough,” Dorothea said, but she might as well have been saying, “I’m real now. I’m real.”)

“What?”

“Date. Did they ever date each other, I mean. Or just like, you know, a one-sided crush, or one of those weird ‘we didn’t date but we were something’ things. Ex-almosts. You know?”

They were stopped at a red light, which gave Felix the freedom to give her a sideways glance from the driver’s seat. “What’s got you so interested in Glenn? Don’t tell me you’ve joined the fan club.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Annette. “That’s crazy talk. I mean, we’ve never met! Who joins a fan club for someone they’ve never met?”

“That  _ is  _ how most fan clubs work,” said Felix dryly. “People are shallow. ‘Oh, he’s so pretty. Who cares about his personality?’”

_ “Pretty boy _ ? Are we still talking about Glenn?” said Annette. “Glenn’s not  _ pretty. _ ”

Felix snorted. “Oh,  _ c’mon. _ Don’t lie to protect my ego,” he said. “Go ahead; admit it. You think he is.”

“Sorry, I must’ve missed the part where I called him a snot-faced, mouth-breathing troll,” said Annette. “I’m not saying he’s  _ hideous,  _ because, you know, objectively speaking, he’s not, but ‘pretty’ just feels like the wrong word. You know? You’re in the ballpark, but you’re not rounding the bases.”

Granted, she’d only seen a few photos, but Glenn — tall, muscular Glenn — didn’t really jibe with Annette’s idea of “pretty boys.” Not compared to his younger brother. Felix’s long eyelashes, high cheekbones, and full mouth made him look almost delicate in profile. Beautiful, even.

Wait. 

Beautiful _?  _

_ Where did that come from? _

Felix carried on, completely oblivious to Annette’s inner turmoil. “Was that a baseball metaphor? I’m impressed.”

“I contain multitudes,” said Annette briskly.  _ Beautiful? Why had she _ — “We used to go to my grandma’s house up in Maine for a week every summer, and she didn’t have Wi-Fi or cable, so it was lots of Jeopardy and even more baseball.” She smiled, nostalgic. “Dad and I got  _ really _ into the Red Sox. But just for that one week we were there. Like, the second we piled into the minivan and drove home, it’s like we ran into some invisible force field, and bloop, we just stopped caring for the rest of the year.”

“You drove up to  _ Maine? _ ” Felix asked.

“Well, not me. Obviously. Can’t drive,” Annette said breezily. “It was fun! We listened to all the  _ Harry Potter  _ audiobooks. I have a bunch of lobster magnets.”

“That makes it so much worse,” said Felix. “Your parents did this drive every summer? Are they masochists?”

“Oh, don’t be a grump. Road Trips are the Great American pastime,” said Annette. 

Felix rolled his eyes. “Forcing your whole family to suffer through some outdated bullshit tradition that nobody  _ actually  _ likes in the name of ‘fun.’ That’s as American as apple pie.”

Annette made a face. ‘You’re just saying that because you’ve never gone on a road trip with me,” she said. “I pack so many road trip snacks. You know, like those fries with the plastic cheese you only find at gas stations? Or those Hostess snacks that could like, survive the apocalypse? Big fan of those.”

Something smile-like was pushing at the corners of Felix’s mouth. “You’re so weird.”

Annette stuck out her tongue. “I’m a goddamn  _ delight,”  _ she said. “Have you ever tried plastic cheese? It’s barely food but I don’t care. It’s so good. “

“Care to explain what the hell ‘plastic cheese’ is?” Felix asked. 

“I can’t. Plastic cheese defies language,” said Annette. “It’s like a liquid? But also a sauce? You get it in these little cups and you can like, pour it on fries, or hot dogs, or whatever.”

“So it’s just— melted cheese?” Felix asked. “I don’t get it.”

“What’s there to get? It’s cheese, it’s plastic, it’s delicious.”

“But it’s not plastic. It’s just liquid cheese. Where does the plastic part come in?”

Annette bit her lip. “Huh. You know, I never really thought about it—.”

“But you still ate it? Someone gave you a thing called ‘plastic cheese’ and you just— you just ate it anyway? Jesus Christ, how are you still  _ alive _ ?”

“In my defense, I was probably, I don’t know, six, when I first tried it?” said Annette. “I wasn’t exactly at peak critical thinking. I just saw cheese and went, ooh, yummy. I wasn’t like, oh no,  _ why’s it called plastic, is this even edible, why’s it glowing _ —” 

“It  _ glows _ ?”

“Nah, I’m messing with you.  _ Maybe _ .” Annette grinned slyly. “I guess you’ll just have to go on a road trip with me and find out, won’t you?”

“Or we could just melt some cheese in a saucepan and skip the bumper-to-bumper traffic,” said Felix. 

“Are you kidding?” said Annette. “The whole point of the cheese is the road trip you take to get there. It’s no fun if you cheat. Plus, there’s no way you could get that ooey, gooey, rubbery texture at home.”

“You’re not exactly selling me on this weird cheese thing,” said Felix.

Annette shrugged. “Yeah, fine. But the road trip’s the important part, you know? Driving around with people you love. That’s what matters. All that other stuff’s just confetti.”

Felix made a noncommittal humming sound in the back of his throat. “Confetti,” he said. Something about his expression struck Annette as odd. It wasn’t pensive, exactly. Wistful, almost. Even gentle, if she really wanted to stretch the truth.

It wasn’t until later, much later, long after Felix had dropped her off at her house that Annette realized she’d been too distracted by the sight of that gentle smile to press him about Ingrid and Glenn. 

_____

In general, Annette liked Saturday mornings. The combination of the crisp morning air and a full day to tackle the work ahead of her were a general recipe for goodness. Some days, she took advantage of the peace and quiet and eagerly devoured whatever fantasy or historical romance novel she’d been reading lately; other times, if Mama was awake, the two of them would make breakfast together and listen to the bluebirds singing in the trees.

Today, however, she found herself filled with a vague sense of listlessness. It almost felt like she was forgetting something. She checked her planner (color-coded, of course) but all her assignments were taken care of. Something else, then. But what was it?

Annette wandered from her bedroom into the kitchen, nearly tripping over Mimi, who was asleep at the foot of the stairs, in the process. She opened the fridge, scanned the contents, and closed the door with a defeated sigh. It wasn’t until was scrolling through her phone and an old calendar alert notified her of “practice!! - in 30 mins” that she understood. She wasn’t missing  _ something _ ; she was missing  _ someone _ . Or, more accurately, several  _ someones _ .

Annette stared at the alert for a moment before she dismissed it. She composed a series of texts to Ingrid:

_ hey!! are you busy today?  _

_ would love to practice driving if you’re free  _

_ no worries if not though haha _

Ten minutes later, Ingrid replied:

_ I’m not busy. Be there in 15. _

Thirteen-and-a-half minutes later, a cherry-red Jeep pulled into the cul-de-sac. 

“Morning,” said Ingrid, as Annette opened the passenger door. She wore a burnt orange beanie over her signature blonde braid, which shouldn’t’ve worked, but on Ingrid it did, somehow. “Don’t worry, I’m not making you drive on actual roads today. We’re going to a big, empty parking lot.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” said Annette, sliding into her seat and buckling her seatbelt. “I don’t know if I’m ready for actual roads yet.”

“I’ll say,” said Ingrid. She restarted the engine and released the clutch with a slow, fluid gesture. “We’ll talk once you can drive a car in a parking lot without screaming, which might be months from now at the rate you’re going.”

“Hey, never say never. I’m a fast learner,” Annette said. She bit her lip. “Hey, um, Ingrid?”

“Mm?” said Ingrid. Her hand stalled on the gear shift. 

“You know you don’t have to do this, right?” said Annette quietly. “Teach me to drive. I know you said you made a promise, or whatever, but you really don’t have to give up your Saturday—”

“I said I wasn’t busy because I  _ wasn’t busy _ ,” Ingrid interjected. “I like you, Annette, but I’m not gonna make room in my schedule just because you want me to.”

Annette frowned. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Why offer to teach me at all? Or, I guess more accurately, why  _ keep  _ teaching me? I’m a disaster. You said it yourself.”

“Maybe ‘disaster’ was a little harsh.” Ingrid sighed. “I just— I had to, okay?”

“You  _ had _ to? According to who?”

Ingrid tapped the steering wheel with her fingers. She reached down to change gears. “According to me.”

“What—?”

“Look,” Ingrid said. “No one taught me how to drive, okay? And that was  _ miserable.  _ I’m not making someone else go through that alone. Not if I can help it.”

“Oh,” said Annette. “Um, thanks.”

Ingrid reached overhead to fiddle with the sun visor. “Don’t mention it.”

“Wow. I’m really—”

“I wasn’t being polite,” Ingrid said. “Seriously,  _ don’t mention it. _ ”

Annette bit back a smile. “Sure thing. Reading you loud and clear.”

It’d been a while since Annette had stopped to appreciate just how kind Ingrid was, but it hit her now with the strength of a five-alarm fire. Ingrid might tell her not to mention it, but there was no rule saying Annette had to stop thinking about it: her fierce, maternal loyalty to her friends; her protective older sibling instincts that she extended to everyone almost without thinking.

Dorothea had said Ingrid was complicated, and Annette hadn’t believed her. But here, sitting in her car, watching as Ingrid tried to pretend this was anything other than generosity, she believed it.

For some reason, the scope and brilliance of this kindness reminded her of Felix.

Annette tried to avoid thinking too much about that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You do?” said Annette. 
> 
> Felix nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Hope is the thing with feathers, and all that shit.”
> 
> A confused crease appeared on Annette’s forehead. “I didn’t know you liked Emily Dickinson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: underage drug use (marijuana), death of a parent (between "It's a two-player" and "I don't understand)
> 
> Once again, thank you all for reading! It really makes me so excited & so motivated to write whenever I see people are enjoying this thing I'm writing <3 Today's chapter is up a day early for some uninteresting scheduling reasons. I hope you enjoy it!

Felix thought the cloud escaping from Sylvain’s lips looked like an actual cloud, like a sky cloud, like one of those cartoon clouds he used to doodle in the margins of his math homework. Sylvain sharply exhaled, before he brought the pipe back to his lips and took another slow drag. With his eyes half-lidded, he tilted his head back and blew a few smoke rings from his pursed lips.

“Sylvie,” Dorothea said. Her voice sounded distant, almost echoing, like his head was underwater. 

They were lying on the floor of Sylvain’s room, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars stickers that formed a loose assortment of constellations on his ceiling. They were a vestige of elementary school, but Sylvain claimed he was too lazy to take them down. Dorothea had suggested climbing up on his shoulders to peel them off, but Sylvain wouldn’t entertain the notion. _Too dangerous_ , he’d said, _what if you fall?_

But Felix didn’t think that was it, exactly. He remembered elementary school, himself, Sylvain, and Ingrid crowded onto Sylvain’s twin bed, as Sylvian pointed up at the ceiling: that’s the Big Dipper, that’s the Little Dipper, that’s Orion’s Belt. He’d been going through an astronomy phase at the time; something about sailors who found their way home as they navigated by the stars. 

Maybe that was it. Maybe it wasn’t about the stickers, or the stars, or the sky at all. 

Maybe it was about coming home.

“What?” Sylvain said, passing the pipe to Felix. Felix took a long, slow drag. Not his first, and probably not his last of the night. (He might have been slightly higher than intended.)

“Sylvie, didn’t you use to have a bookshelf? A really big one. With some—like. Probably some books?”

“Things change when you grow up,” said Sylvain, philosophical. 

Dorothea meditated on his ceiling. “Not everything.”

At some point in the night, she’d complained about the temperature and peeled off her Garegg Mach Drama Department T-Shirt. One arm propped up her head; the other rested lightly on her bare stomach beneath her black lace bra. The pattern reminded Felix of spiderwebs. 

Felix was still sober enough that he recognized, albeit distantly, that they didn’t normally smoke at Sylvain’s. He wasn’t sure he liked it when they did. Sylvain was different in his bedroom. Edgier. Crueller. Felix was never sure how seriously to take him. His jokes had teeth. Sometimes, Felix came away bleeding.

“Well, duh.”

“But some things have to,” Dorothea said dreamily. “That’s just _life._ ”

Felix realized he was still holding the pipe. At this point, it was mostly ashes. He studied the glass. It was delicate in his hand. He could wrap his fist around it and cut himself on the broken shards. It was almost too easy.

“I’m so fucking alone,” said Felix, which were not the words he’d been planning on.

“We’re all alone,” said Dorothea. She sounded wistful, but maybe it was the drugs talking. “We’re born alone and we die alone.”

“You either kill yourself or get killed,” said Sylvain. “Whatcha gonna do?”

Dorothea nodded sagely. “Whatcha gonna do?” She repealed plaintively. The word “whatcha” sounded totally ridiculous in her mouth. Maybe Dorothea realized this, because she let out a sudden cackle that turned into a series of loud, wheezing giggles. 

“I mean it,” said Felix. He waved a hand in the air. “Like, it’s just, what is the universe but a lot of waves — what’s left of a man, and all— and all his pride but bones—”

“Whoa,” Sylvain said. “We all smoked the same shit, how are you like, crossfaded right now?”

Felix scowled. “It’s Kerouac, you illiterate piece of shit.”

“What?”

“The poetry. Kerouac,” said Felix, who was simultaneously both sober enough to remember Jack Kerouac existed and buzzed enough to admit he read poetry.

“Gesundheit,” said Sylvain.

“That’s not even—” Felix said. “Whatever. Jackass.”

But his words didn’t have any bite to them. In the quiet of Sylvain’s room, with his back on the floor and his feet braced against his platform bed, he felt looser. Blurry, even. 

They used to do this all the time, the three of them. Sophomore year — right after Glenn graduated Garegg Mach — there was this internal claustrophobia he used to get sometimes; this twitchiness like a burning house inside his head.

They used to be so careful back then. So precise; so worried about not getting caught. Sylvain kept his pot beneath the tongue of one of his old sneakers; his lighter underneath the bathroom sink; his pipe in his sock drawer. In retrospect, it’s funny; the idea that they used to drive for hours and smoke in empty parking lots. They weren’t the kind of kids people worried about.

Above him, the stars shone down like a kaleidoscope of iridescent diamonds. Which was weird, because didn’t Sylvain have a roof? Felix hadn’t been in Sylvain’s room in weeks, but he was reasonably sure that was how houses worked. 

“Sylvain,” he said. “Where’s your fucking ceiling.”

He didn’t think it was all that funny, but Sylvain started to laugh. “Dude,” he said. “it’s right there. It’s always been there.”

_____

"Why didn’t we invite Dima?” Sylvain asked a little while later after they’d all sobered up. Not enough to drive home, but enough to crowd around Sylvain’s laptop to watch old Flight of the Conchords episodes.

“What?” Felix said.

“We should’ve invited him. God knows he could fucking—like, mellow out a bit. Take the edge off, you know. Why didn’t we?”

Sylvain’s voice was slow, thoughtful. As if it had been weighing on him. Felix couldn’t imagine why. “We did,” he said. “The boar said he had plans.”

He’d been surprisingly cagey about them, too. Cagier than Dimitri normally was, at any rate, although Felix hadn’t pried; it wasn’t his business, and he wasn’t about to make it his business by asking too many questions.

Dorothea scoffed. “Dimitri smokes?”

“Last year? Every day, if we let him.” Felix turned to look at her. "You really don't remember the custody shit, do you?" 

Dorothea shrugged. "It wasn’t in my orbit." She frowned. A crease appeared between her brows. “Hang on. Why do you call him ‘the boar,’ anyway?”

Felix and Sylvain exchanged a look.

“There’s been some heated debate, but the general consensus is that, uh, we can’t remember,” said Sylvain at last.

“You _can’t remember_?”

“It had something to do with his pigheadedness,” said Sylvain. “We think. But it might also—he used to really like pigs, apparently? That was back before we knew him, though. Elementary school.”

“So how would that even be relevant?”

Sylvain shrugged. “That,” he said. “Is honestly anyone’s guess.”

_____

When Felix got home that night, there were three messages left on the answering machine. Two were canvassing requests for local Democratic candidates, which Felix deleted. The last was a reminder for Rodrigue about an upcoming fundraising gala in Washington. Felix listened to thirty seconds of the caller’s artificially cheery voice before he hung up the phone and cleared the inbox.

Felix wished he had the energy to be angry about it. He stared at the blinking light on the machine, thinking, “at least he’s using the home phone as his contact number.”

_____

On Tuesday, Dimitri was an hour late to Latin.

Dimitri was never late to class, never even so much as tardy, but he was _especially_ never late to Latin. Not when he had, as he repeatedly stressed to Felix, so much riding on a Classics recommendation. The one time he’d missed Latin, he’d been out sick with pneumonia; when he’d shown up the next week, he’d apologized so profusely that Professor Casagranda had started to look uncomfortable. 

They were finishing up a worksheet about declensions when Dimitri breezed into the room, backpack slung jauntily over one shoulder. 

“Excuse me, professor,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

Professor Casagranda blinked in surprise. “Do you have a pass?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t,” said Dimitri. 

Professor Casagranda waved him to his seat. Normally, unexcused absences resulted in a call home, but Felix doubted she wanted to call the Blaiddyd estate. Not when Mr. Blaiddyd’s name cast a grim shadow over the school. Not when Dimitri seemed relaxed, unbothered, and even breathlessly happy at the prospect of a strike in his perfect attendance streak.

Felix wondered what Dimitri had to be so happy about. He didn’t want to ask. (He _didn’t_. He didn’t .) 

“What problem are we on?” Dimitri asked as he settled into his chair with a blank copy of the assignment. Felix wordlessly gestured to the problem. They spent the rest of the period in silence. 

_____

Ingrid was pissed about the events in Latin. Absolutely pissed. Felix tried not to read too much into it.

“Seriously?” she muttered breathlessly, keeping pace with Felix as the two of them ran the trail behind his house. “God, he’s been so weird lately. First Claude, then this? He’s gonna fuck up his future if he’s not careful.”

Claude. There was that name again. Christ, he just kept showing up like a bad smell. “What about Claude?” Felix huffed, grateful that his slight lag behind Ingrid meant she couldn’t read his startled expression.

“You don’t know?” Ingrid said. “Right. I forgot. You were with Sylvain and Thea. Doing—you know. Whatever.” Barely-restrained judgment oozed from her words, but Felix, feeling generous, bypassed a prime opportunity to give Ingrid shit for her Puritanical views. 

“Don’t leave me hanging,” he said instead. 

“There’s not much to tell,” Ingrid said. “We were supposed to hang out Friday to work on a history project. Last-minute, he completely bails. Says he’s ‘sick’ or something.”

“I’m guessing he wasn’t—” Felix began.

“That the bastard lied to me,” Ingrid managed to wheeze out. “He decided he wanted to hang out with Claude von _fucking_ Riegan instead. I had to find out from T— from someone. He didn’t even have the balls to tell me.”

They stopped at the edge of the creek, panting, sweaty, and winded. Felix bent down to rest his hands on his knees to catch his breath. When he straightened, Ingrid was watching the skyline as the sun dipped behind the trees. A part of Felix was delighted by the anger that burned behind her eyes. A larger part of him wondered if she’d feel the same way if she knew the truth.

( The hot, sticky days of summer, before Annette, before Edelgard, before the big house and the gated community pool. Before college applications, before their band had a fighting chance at semifinals, there was only Dimitri, his voice small and rough with sleep, whispered in the darkness of Felix’s bedroom. “You can’t tell anyone. Felix, promise. Promise me you won’t tell.”

 _I promise._ )

“So what?” Felix said.

Ingrid turned around. “What?”

“What’s it matter, anyway,” said Felix, taking a swig from his water bottle.

“Aside from the fact that he just lied to me for no reason?” said Ingrid with a roll of her eyes. “It’s Claude. You know, _Claude_. Claude, who we hate.”

Felix wasn’t aware that Ingrid had a reason to hate Claude. For a moment, he wondered if Dimitri had told Ingrid about the summer before freshman year— Dimitri’s freshman year, that was — before he realized that no, that couldn’t be it. Ingrid had said “hate,” but it wasn’t fully committed. Her hate for Claude had the same bitterness she reserved for anti-vaxxers and people who cut her off in traffic. This didn’t sound personal; only a tick above _annoyed_.

“Why do you hate Claude?” said Felix. He realized a second too late that he’d slipped up and inadvertently revealed he _also_ hated Claude, but luckily, Ingrid wasn’t paying much attention. That, or she’d spent enough time around Felix to assume this was just another example of Felix’s tendency towards neutral-to-positive feelings for a select few and indiscriminate hatred for the rest.

“Where to begin? He’s just so full of himself. Everything’s a goddamn joke to him,” said Ingrid, scowling as she wiped away sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Last week, we were talking about conspiracy theories in History. You know, the ‘moon landing was fake,’ and all that. And Claude says, ‘Pfft, you still believe in the moon? Everyone knows it’s just a hologram.’”

Felix wasn’t sure he followed. “So you hate him because—he doesn’t believe in the moon?”

Ingrid shook her head. “No, it’s just—” She made an exasperated noise. “He always seems like he’s up to something. Like he’s better than us. Like he thinks we’re all some little pieces on his chessboard that he can just— just move us around whenever he wants. Like he’s some kind of kingpin and we’re all just his little pawns.”

“You make him sound like Tony Soprano,” said Felix dryly.

“I’m not explaining this right,” Ingrid said as the two of them began to walk the trail back to Felix’s house. “I just don’t like him. He doesn’t take anything seriously, but he still ends up on top. I just don’t get it.”

“Mm,” said Felix, who wasn’t listening. He was thinking about Claude orchestrating karaoke, and possibly his whole party, to find their band a new singer; about Hilda’s sudden eagerness to offer style advice; about Dimitri showing up late, for the first time in his high school career, less than a week after he’d apparently started hanging around Claude again.

He wasn’t sure what was going on, but whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

“Tell me you’re with me on this one,” said Ingrid. “Or do you actually _like_ Claude?”

Felix’s jaw worked. “Believe me, that’s the one thing you’ll never have to worry about.”

_____

“What the hell is this?” were Felix’s first words when he rounded the corner into Dimitri’s rec room.

His first thought was that a tornado had torn through the basement. Every square inch of the room was covered in paper: stacks of sheet music covered the futon; songbooks balanced precariously in enormous piles at least three feet high. Ingrid and Sylvain were squished together on the couch flipping through previous years’ programs, while at the far end of the room, Dimitri was a one-man island surrounded by a sea of scores. 

In the center of the room, Annette was lying on her stomach to sort through a stack of paper. “We’re brainstorming,” she said cheerfully. “Ooh, also— I baked cupcakes, but there’s also a plain croissant in there for you if you want it.”

From that one conversation a few months ago, she’d remembered he didn’t like sweets. Felix struggled with the urge to bask in her consideration, wrap himself up in it like a warm blanket.

“Cool, thanks,” he said, settling down on the carpet beside her. In his peripheral vision, Felix saw Sylvain give him a pointed look. He ignored it. “Here, give me a stack of those.”

Ingrid made a face. “Do you even know what we’re doing?”

“No,” said Felix pointedly. “This is the part where you explain it to me.”

Annette passed him a stack of papers. “We're coming up with a setlist for semifinals,” she said. “Dimitri was explaining it before you got here. Twenty-minute set, audience votes for the top five to move onto the finals, blah-blah-blah.”

“That doesn’t explain all the paper,” said Felix. He gestured aimlessly across the room. “It’s like a Music and Arts threw up in here.”

“Like I said. We’re brainstorming,” said Annette. She rolled over onto her back. “Ingrid and Sylvain are going through programs so we don’t repeat anything from the last five years. Dimitri’s cataloging the stuff we have, and I’m on vocal duty.”

“Vocal duty?”

“Yeah,” said Annette. “You know, finding the stuff I can actually sing.”

“And I’m supposed to do—what?” Felix scanned through the stack of papers. Some of the bands he recognized: Paramore; My Chemical Romance; The Maine; Hey Monday. Others were labeled things like “re: punk goes pop cover?” and “2005 acoustic” in Annette’s girly handwriting. 

“Just weigh in on them. Give me your two cents. Can we do an All Time Low cover or is that too cringy?”

“Cringy. What’s that word even mean to you, Fe?” volunteered Sylvain from the couch. “You stole eyeliner from the mall in middle school. You thought ‘Voices Carry’ was ‘This is Scary.’ _You tried to pierce your ears with a sewing needle._ ”

He’d been inspired by a magazine cutout of Gerard Way, but Felix didn’t see that helping his case. “You didn’t exactly try to stop me,” he said.

Sylvain shrugged. “Hey, man, I’m the eye-candy of this joint. No one’s expecting me to have any brain cells.” He turned towards Annette. “Long story short, he used to have this itty-bitty scar on his left ear. It’s mostly gone now, though, ey, Fe? Unless you repierced them when we weren’t looking. Did you?”

“I guess you’ll never know,” said Felix.

That turned out to be a mistake. Sylvain leaped down from the couch. “One way to find out: let me see your ears.”

Felix attempted to shake Sylvain. “No way. You’re not touching my—”

Sylvain continued to struggle with Felix; somewhere between playfighting and roughhousing. “Just let me see—”

“Get _off_ —” Felix hissed.

Ingrid put her head in her hands.

“You’re being so _difficult_ —” 

_“I’m_ being difficult?”

“Guys,” Annette warned and then again, more shrilly, “Guys, watch out for the—”

Her warning came a second too late as Sylvain and Felix crashed into one of the piles of sheet music, sending hundreds of sheets of paper flying through the air and fluttering to the ground. 

The room was deathly quiet. Felix still had his hand collapsed around Sylvain’s wrist; the two of them frozen in the instant before the disaster.

Dimitri stood up. 

“Well, there goes a good three hours of work,” he said tightly. “Nicely done, you two. Thanks for taking this so seriously.”

“It’s your fault too,” Felix snapped. “Who leaves stacks of papers just— just lying around in unorganized piles like that?”

Dimitri pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked like he was trying very hard not to scream. 

“We have some boxes upstairs in the office,” he said instead. “If I’d known this was going to be a _problem,_ I would’ve brought them downstairs already. I’ll go get them.”

“We’ll help,” said Ingrid, leaping up from the couch. She grabbed Sylvain’s forearm and yanked him to his feet. “C’mon, Sylvain. Looks like it’s arm day for both of us.”

“Why me?” said Sylvain plaintively. “This is Felix’s fault too.”

Ingrid shook her head. “Nice try. Get you ass up, dickhead.” 

“You’re not my real mom,” Sylvain muttered, but he followed Ingrid up the basement stairs.

The sounds of footprints became muffled and distant. Felix turned to Annette, who, unsurprisingly, was already stacking sheets of paper in neat piles. He cleared his throat.

“Hey, I’m, uh, sorry about that,” he said. “That you have to pick up our mess—”

“It’s okay,” said Annette, forehead wrinkled in surprise or confusion. “It was an accident. Accidents happen. At least you didn’t, like, spill coffee on them, or somehow they spontaneously caught on fire. Or something.” 

“Yeah,” Felix said. “Does that happen a lot with you/”

“Spilling coffee or setting things on fire?” Annette passed Felix a stack of papers. He shuffled them into a pile and placed them off to one side. “Because, yeah, both are true. Or have been, at least. What can I say? I’m a magnet for chaos.”

“I might regret asking, but I’m curious,” said Felix. “What’s the story with the fire-starting?”

“That depends. Do you mean, how did it happen the first time or the most recent time?” A corner of Annette’s mouth quirked up in that way that made Felix glad he was sitting down. "I tried to make hash browns and things got— well, anyway. Did you know olive oil is, like, _really_ flammable?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Felix. “You didn’t?”

Annette sighed. “See, this is why I stick to baking. You don’t have to deal with gas fires when you just stick to making brownies.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t _think_ you do,” said Annette. “There’s gotta be some nuance, right?”

“I don’t know,” Felix admitted. He studied her. “Why do you like baking so much, anyway?”

The smile returned to her lips, but softer this time, somehow. Like she was remembering an inside joke. He was expecting something about nervous habits, or her sweet tooth, or some family tradition. 

Annette reached for another stack of papers and said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world: “Ladybugs.”

Felix blinked. “Uh—?”

“No, let me explain, okay?” said Annette. She sat back on her heels. “Did you ever hear that nursery rhyme? The one that goes: ladybug, ladybug, fly away home?”

“Sure,” said Felix. “If you mean the really morbid one, about fire and ‘your children are burning.”

“Yeah,” said Annette, like it was a given. “Except there’s this other part to the rhyme that goes ‘All except one, and her name is Ann, and she hid under the baking pan.’ Not a lot of people know about it because it’s kinda clunky and, you know, breaks up the rhythm, but obviously, Ann, baking, kind of my schtick.”

“You made cupcakes because of a song about bugs?” said Felix.

Annette passed him another stack of papers. “Not exactly. It’s— oh, how do I explain it?” She thought for a moment; so long that Felix wondered if he’d offended her somehow. “My mom calls me ‘ladybug’ because of the rhyme, but that’s not—” 

Christ, her eyes were so blue. Felix had to look away. He reshuffled a pile of sheet music.

“The rhyme’s about ladybugs, but it’s not, really,” Annette was saying. “It’s about being small, but still smart and brave enough to fly away. But then you come back. Even though you had to leave. Even though your home is— it’s all gone. You make a new one, and you make it — you make it beautiful, you know? Because you have to. Because there’s no other way.”

Felix didn’t realize he was staring until Annette gave a light, nervous laugh. “That doesn’t answer your question, though, does it? I’m sorry, I have all these ideas, but they just get all jumbled up when I try to say them out loud. It’s stupid, really.”

“It’s not stupid,” said Felix. “I know what you mean.”

“You do?” said Annette. 

Felix nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Hope is the thing with feathers, and all that shit.”

A confused crease appeared on Annette’s forehead. “I didn’t know you liked Emily Dickinson.”

Ah. Ah, fuck, he’d slipped up, hadn’t he? Felix felt his cheeks burn.

“That surprises you?” he said, as lightly as he could manage.

“Kind of. I thought you said you didn’t read much,” Annette said.

Felix shrugged. “What _is_ much?”

“Oh,” said Annette, barely audible. 

The sound of footprints on the stairs signaled that the rest of the band was returning with the boxes. He took a large, conscious step away from Annette and busied himself with a stack of songbooks.

Feeling things made Felix uneasy, but the idea of other people seeing him feeling things was a step too far. It stripped him raw.

Sylvain stuck his head around the corner. His arms were piled high with cardboard boxes. “Fe, come help us,” he said. “These fuckers are a _bitch_ to carry down the stairs.”

“Why should I do that?” Felix said.

“I can help,” said Annette, scrambling to her feet.

“You’re fine,” said Felix.

“It really looks like he could use a hand.”

“Sylvain’s a big boy,” said Felix. “He’ll manage.”

“Dude, what’s the holdup?’ called Ingrid from somewhere on the stairs. 

“We should’ve just let Dima carry all of these,” said Sylvain. “He offered.”

“And we were good friends and wouldn’t let him do that,” Ingrid answered. “Move it.”

Sylvain walked around the corner, a stack of plastic storage tubs in his arms. His wary expression transformed as he studied the room. “Wow,” he said. “You two cleaned up fast.”

“We make a good team,” said Annette, beaming. 

Sylvain set the bins down and stepped to one side, allowing Ingrid to fall in behind him. He threaded his thumbs through the loops of his jeans. “You know, there was probably a more efficient way to do all of this.”

Ingrid set down her set of boxes with a grunt. “I didn’t hear you offering any suggestions.”

“You don’t need to have an alternative to know something’s a bad idea.”

“What’s a bad idea?” Dimitri’s voice filtered in from the top of the stairs. Maddeningly, he didn’t sound breathless at all. 

“Nothing,” Ingrid called a beat too soon.

Dimitri appeared around the corner. “It didn’t sound like nothing,” he said, squeezing past Ingrid to set his stack of bins on the ground.

Felix forgot sometimes; how perceptive Dimitri could be when he wanted to. If Sylvain was crueler in his own house, Dimitri was jumpier. At school, at practice, at their houses, Dimitri was distracted and dreamlike. In his own house, his paranoia was a knife spinning circles in his stomach, tearing him to shreds from the inside out.

“I was just telling Felix he should re-pierce his ears,” Annette said innocently. “I think it could give us a little edge.”

"Oh," said Dimitri. Behind him, Sylvain and Ingrid visibly relaxed. "You’re right. That is a bad idea.”

_____

“Hey,” said Felix, once practice had let out and he and Annette were alone in his car. “Dimitri’s birthday’s in a few weeks. We’re throwing him a surprise party on the 21st, if you wanna come.”

“Of course I’ll come,” said Annette. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

The worst part, thought Felix, was that she sounded like she really meant it.

_____

The next day, Edelgard was waiting for Felix after second period.

“I need to talk to you,” said Edelgard.

“Not happening,” said Felix. 

He brushed past her and started off towards his third-period class. Around them, the hallway buzzed with passing-period conversation, but Felix was somehow still aware of the furious tapping of her boots on the tile as she struggled to keep up with him.

“It’s important,” said Edelgard. “I wouldn’t waste your time with something trivial.” Trivial. That was the word she used; like they were in fucking _Shakespeare_. 

Felix still hadn’t turned around. “I don’t doubt it.”

“It’s about Dimitri,” said Edelgard desperately.

That got his attention. 

Felix stopped in his tracks. His back to Edelgard, he said, in a low voice: “And you decided to come to me about this shit because—?”

“Because I don’t have a choice,” said Edelgard.

Felix turned around and regarded her for a long moment. Here, now, in the hallway in front of him, Edelgard shouldn’t have cut an imposing figure. Her blonde hair was pinned back by two sets of cherry-red barrettes; a pair of black knee socks only made her look even more like a child. But all the same, there was something about her. Something he couldn’t put a finger on. Something… ineffable.

Edelgard von Hresvelg was 5’2” and every inch of her was terrifying.

“What do you want?” Felix said tiredly.

Edelgard shook her head. “Not here,” she said in an undertone.

“You just followed me down a hallway and _now_ you’re worried about people talking?” Felix said. 

“Don’t be facetious,” Edelgard snapped. “That was completely different.”

Felix started to turn away. It was an empty threat, but Edelgard didn’t call his bluff. Her hand darted out to grab his sleeve; so quickly he barely had time to react to her grip on his shirtsleeve before it was gone.

“Please,” she said.

Felix’s gut instinct was to turn on his heel and storm away— but something in her face stopped him.

“You have thirty seconds,” he said.

Edelgard seemed to be struggling over whether to push this issue of privacy, but in the end, she nodded, and swallowed, hard. 

Felix waited.

“What does he want for his birthday?” Edelgard asked.

For a second, Felix thought it was the setup of a joke, but Edelgard didn’t volunteer anything else.

“What?”

Edelgard stared at him. 

“You’re actually serious.”

“I’m always serious,” she said, a harsh set to her jaw. “So, do you know what he wants, or don’t you? I said I wouldn’t waste your time, but that applies to me, too. If you don’t know anything—”

“Let me get this straight,” Felix tried to take everything in. “You waited for me to get out of class, _followed me_ down the hallway, and this big, top-secret revelation that you’ve been sitting on is that you need a _gift guide_ for someone who, by the way, you _live with_ —” 

“Forget it,” Edelgard snapped. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t understand.”

“What I understand,” said Felix acidly, “is that you’re a crazy psycho _bitch._ ”

“Original,” Edelgard muttered, but Felix wasn’t done.

“You know what he wants? You know what would be the perfect fucking gift?” He said. “Don’t show up.”

Edeglard’s laser focus tracked to Felix’s hand, tensing into a fist at his side. Slowly, her eyes trailed back up to his face. Against his better judgment, Felix took a step forward.

“I’ll try my best,” she said icily. “But like you said, we live together. There’s only so much I can do.”

The warning bell rang.

“Nice talking to you, Felix,” Edelgard said. She looked tired, but then again, it could just be all the eye makeup.

_____

“So,” said Sylvain that night, when the two of them were once again parked in front of his flatscreen, game controllers in hand. “Dorothea said she saw you and the stepmonster talking today after English. What’s that all about?”

“What do you mean?” Felix said, without tearing his eyes away from the screen.

“Well, Do said, and I quote, ‘Edie looked like she wanted to bite him,'” Sylvain said. His fingers flew across the controller. “So?”

“So did she _bite me_?”

“No, dipshit, I mean, what did she want?”

Felix frowned. He didn’t know how to explain his conversation with Edelgard in a way that accurately captured the atmosphere in that hallway, the dangerous, disquieting feeling that roiled in his gut. It was almost impressive how easily she’d managed it, in that hallway, to make him feel so ugly; so pitifully small.

“What does Edelgard ever want?” Felix said cryptically.

Sylvain thought for a moment. “World peace? World domination? More eyeliner?” He offered.

“In that order?” said Felix.

“Exactly,” said Sylvain. He turned his attention back to the game. “Dude, why aren’t my bombs deploying? I’m mashing the _y_ button like crazy.”

“That’s because it’s _x,_ dumbass,” said Felix. “You’re killing me. Fucking _killing_ me. Do you just— not play your own games?”

“It’s a two-player. Who would I play with?” said Sylvain.

_____

Sylvain had come to his mother’s funeral. All of them had— Sylvain, in a suit that was too big for him. Ingrid and her family, who took up three rows of pews. Dimitri and his father Lambert, lingering at the periphery, shrouded in their own tangled skeins of grief.

But Sylvain was the only one who’d had the courage to come up to Felix after the ceremony. The only one brave enough to see right through the incense, the chanting, and the priest in his cassock to find Felix’s loss eating a knot through his chest. 

Afterward, sitting on the steps of the church as attendees trickled out to their cars, Sylvain kicked aimlessly at a patch of grass.

“That was a stupid speech,” he said. “She wasn’t like that at all.”

And it wasn’t that Felix disagreed with him. It was more like everything he once knew had been dismantled. ‘Homes’ could grow colder until they became ‘houses.’ The places he’d once felt safe could be dismantled and made unholy. Mothers could be killed as easily as breathing. 

Felix’s mother had a sharp, holy-eyed face like something off a prayer card, but when Rodrigue took the boys to Mass each Sunday, she never came along. “God and I have an understanding,” she’d said once, like it meant something different. “Your father knows that,” she said, and that meant something different, too.

They buried her ashes in the cemetery behind St. Jude’s, which was the last time Felix set foot on holy ground.

_____

“I don’t understand,” Dorothea said later that week as the two of them surveyed the crowded cafeteria. “Who _are_ all these people? Have they always had this lunch period?”

Felix felt like it was a rhetorical question but that didn’t stop him from answering. “We’ve been eating lunch under the bleachers since August. Which I still think we should do, rather than deal with all of… _this._ ”

“It’s like twenty out,” said Dorothea. “So.”

“Well, do _you_ see a place to sit?” Felix asked. 

The two of them scanned the room for an empty chair. Some of Ingrid’s friends from soccer were crowded around a corner table, laughing loudly. Lorenz and Ferdinand were surrounded by a group of theater kids at a table by the vending machine. 

At the edge of the cafeteria, a mostly empty table caught his attention, but his gaze wandered an inch further, and he spotted the back of Annette’s head across the room, and damn— his resolve crumpled in a pile of stomach butterflies.

One of these days he’d be immune to it. The sight of her wild and fiery hair, swaying with every motion of her body, how it shone like a halo beneath the fluorescent lights; the narrowness of her shoulders, the way she tilted her head back to laugh at something one of her friends was saying, the sound of her laughter cutting through the noise of the cafeteria like a hymn. Where was his scar tissue? Why did he feel so— so exposed every time he saw her face?

“Oh, hey, look, there’s Annette!” Dorothea said. “I didn’t know she had this lunch. Let’s go sit with her.”

“What—” Felix said, but Dorothea was already yanking him by the arm and pulling him across the cafeteria. Not that he would’ve had an easy time explaining his unease to her. Nor did he want to— it felt childish to even think about. He managed to think _you fucked this up_ as Dorothea strode across the floor.

Ashe stopped talking mid-word as Dorothea plunked her lunch on the table. Felix dropped into the empty chair next to Annette and Dorothea took the seat across from him. Annette looked up at Felix, who was suddenly very interested in unwrapping his sandwich.

“I didn’t know we all had the same lunch,” said Annette.

“Neither did we,” said Dorothea cheerfully. “Sylvain’s here too. At least in theory, but he’s got release right before lunch, so he tends to skip.”

“Oh, right! Mercie mentioned he’s been going to Fergus’s,” Annette said. She frowned. “I didn’t know seniors were allowed to go off-campus for lunch.”

“We’re not,” said Dorothea. “But it’s never stopped him.”

The blonde girl sitting between Annette and Ashe wordlessly pulled a fork from her purple lunchbox. Something in her expression suggested murder. Felix watched her carefully.

“So, anyway,” Dorothea said, turning her attention to Annette’s friends. “I’m Dorothea. Senior, vocalist, diva extraordinaire. I don’t bite. Unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

Ashe looked confused. “Huh?”

“And this is Felix. He plays bass sometimes and he's a miserable bastard all the time. And you’re Ashe and—”

“Lysithea,” said the blonde girl— _Lysithea_ —with a frown. “We’ve met. Back in World Religion, remember?”

Felix gave Dorothea a confused look. In three years of their friendship, Dorothea had never mentioned an interest in theology. He couldn’t picture her taking an elective like that.

“Right, of course. Two years ago,” Dorothea said. “You’re a sophomore, right? So that must’ve been your freshman year?”

Lysithea gave a stiff nod, although she relaxed slightly when Annette added,

“Yeah, remember you and me and Linhardt and Lysithea all sat at the same table?” She took a sip of water. “You three did that presentation, what was it, something about Notre Dame—”

“Sacred architecture at the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris,” Dorothea finished. “How could I forget? It was like herding cats getting that boy to work on a group project.”

“How did you? In the end?” said Annette.

“Bribery,” said Lysithea. Felix wasn’t sure whether she was joking, but nothing in her tone invited further questions. He took a bite of his sandwich.

“Man,” said Ashe, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “I’m still so mad I didn’t get to take that class. The reading list looked so cool. I mean, come on, in what other class do you get to read _The Chronicles of Narnia_ and Rumi at the same time?”

Lysithea gave him a look. “You could’ve taken it this year,” she offered. Something— something in the set of her jaw, the intensity of her stare, the tone of her voice— reminded Felix of Edelgard, and he didn’t like that at _all_.

Ashe shrugged. “Last year it overlapped with chemistry. This year it overlaps with physics.”

Lysithea frowned. “But you hate both of those classes.”

“Yeah,” Ashe admitted. “But I still need to take them to graduate. I might as well get them over with before senior year, right? Lonato’s idea.”

( Felix had only met Lonato once; four years ago, right around the time that Lonato adopted Ashe from the foster care system. From what he remembered, Lonato was gruff but kind, When Ashe had caught sight of his father’s beat-up pickup truck in the carpool line, his smile had been so bright it had threatened to outshine the sun.

“Need a ride?” Lonato had asked. “I’m happy to take you home if you call your Dad and let him know we’re coming.” 

It had taken every inch of Felix’s willpower to say no, that was fine, he was happy to wait for Rodrigue.

The night of Hilda’s Halloween party, Annette had asked Felix why he disliked Ashe. Maybe it was the memory of Lonato’s worn leather jacket, Ashe’s warm laughter, and the roar of the engine as they drove away. 

At least, that had been a part of it. ) 

“That’s a really smart idea,” Annette said. She picked at her salad. “Ugh, that reminds me. I still need to get through my last science class next year. I have no idea what I’m even gonna take.”

“Well, you can rule out physics,” said Lysithea solemnly. “You complain enough about parabolic functions as it is. Adding another calculus-based class to the mix is just a recipe for disaster.”

“Maybe she just likes to kvetch,” Dorothea said. “Can you blame her? I mean, it’s _math_.”

“Tautology isn’t a good way to win an argument,” said Lysithea, stabbing a piece of Rotini with her fork. 

“Are we having an argument?” Dorothea protested, mock-indignant. “And here I thought we were just having a lively chat among friends.”

“We aren’t friends,” said Lysithea, so flatly and directly that Annette laughed, so brightly and fully that Felix lost the ability to process human speech. For a moment, all he could think about was the tilt of her jaw, the fullness of her mouth, the softness of her lips, the fact that there was nothing between them, nothing to stop him from bridging the narrow distance and just—

“Yet. You’re not friends _yet,_ ” said Annette, light, carefree, and with a pointed grin in Felix’s direction. Felix couldn’t look her in the eye and expect to form words, so instead, he took another bite of his sandwich, once again grateful for the distraction.

“You really think we’ll all be friends?” Lysithea asked. Surprisingly enough, it didn’t sound like a rhetorical question; Lysithea seemed genuinely curious. “It’s a bit too soon to tell, don’t you think? This isn’t elementary school. We aren’t on the playground. No one’s swapping friendship bracelets.”

Annette turned to look at her. “Do you want me to make you another friendship bracelet?”

 _Another_ implied Annette had already made Lysithea at least one friendship bracelet. Of course she had. Felix folded the plastic wrap from his sandwich into a tight wad as Lysithea said, “Are you being willfully obtuse, or are you just that much of a cock-eyed optimist?”

“Hey. Language,” said Ashe.

Lysithea huffed. “That’s not what—”

Ashe shook his head. “I’m teasing, Lys.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Annette, resting her chin on her hand. “Friendship bracelet: yay or nay? I can get started on it tonight, I just need to get some embroidery floss first. I think we have some purple at home, but I have to find some silver. Hmm, I wonder if Bernie has some I could borrow.”

“Ooh, can you make me a bracelet too?” said Dorothea. “I like red, if you’ve got it.”

“Sure.” Annette beamed. “Ashe? Felix? Do either of you want one? I have a ton of blue floss at home.”

“All of you are _children,_ ” said Lysithea. She frowned, then added, reluctantly, “Fine. I’ll take one. But only because you’re already offering.”

_____

On Friday morning, Professor Casagranda assigned them a worksheet. It was supposed to take the entire period, but it was a matching exercise, and Dimitri’s knack for languages meant he cracked the pattern in less than ten minutes.

In normal circumstances, this would’ve been fine. Good, even, considering the dozens of unfinished college applications collecting dust in folders on his desktop that he could’ve been working on instead of some bullshit classwork. 

But then, this wasn’t “normal circumstances,” was it?

Next to him, Dimitri was reading a worn paperback copy of _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?;_ one that was creased and tattered along the spine. It had the look of a book that had been read many times, over and over; passages highlighted and underlined, pages dogeared, paragraphs memorized. Felix hadn’t known Dimitri was even interested in dystopian fiction. It could’ve meant nothing. It could've meant everything. Now, suddenly, he couldn’t stop thinking about how little he knew someone he’d once called his best friend; how easily someone he’d know like his own breathing could become a stranger—

“Spit it out,” said Dimitri tiredly.

Felix started to open his mouth, but Dimitri only sighed and set the book down on his desk.

“You’ve been staring at me for the past five minutes, and it’s really distracting,” he said. A crease appeared between his brows. “So, what is it? What’s the problem? Do I have something on my face?”

“Where were you on Tuesday?” said Felix.

“What?” 

From the look on Dimitri’s face, that wasn’t what he’d been expecting Felix to say. For some reason, Felix felt irritated. His jaw clenched. What, was the idea that he paid attention to things really so strange?

“You came in late on Tuesday,” Felix said tightly. “You don’t do that shit. Where were you?”

“I was just late,” said Dimitri. “I can’t be late?”

“Okay, come on,” said Felix. “You really expect me to believe that? You’re never late.”

Dimitri’s jaw worked. For one brief moment, Felix wondered if Dimitri was going to punch him. 

The moment passed. “Yeah, well,” Dimitri said quietly. “I guess things change.”

“Yeah,” Felix said. “You’re right. I guess they do.”

_____

The first time Felix met Dimitri, he was seven years old. Dimitri was six; he lived across town and went to an expensive all boy’s private school. Their fathers were friends. 

Felix hated Dimitri the moment he laid eyes on him.

Dimitri was small for his age. Smaller than Felix, who was tall at the time, which made Felix feel even taller by comparison. He wore an enormous pair of wire-rimmed glasses that made him look like an owl. He’d flinched when a gust of wind slammed the front door shut behind Rodrigue and Felix, and he’d stared at his father’s retreating form as Lambert and Rodrigue stepped into the study to talk shop.

Dimitri was fragile. Felix hated fragile.

“This is stupid. We don’t have to be friends just because our dads are friends,” said Felix.

“Okay,” said Dimitri. He swung his feet, which dangled off of an enormous leather armchair. It made Dimitri look absolutely tiny. “Do you wanna play World War III Zombie Invasion?”

“What’s that?” Felix asked suspiciously.

“It’s easy,” said Dimitri. “We’re the military guys and we’re fighting off a zombie invasion. We both get Nerf Guns and we have to take out their base, but you can’t get seen, not by anyone, otherwise you get infected and I have to shoot you in the head.”

Felix thought for a moment. “Okay.”

Three hours later, when Rodrigue was ready to leave, he found Felix and Dimitri sitting on the couch in the Blaiddyd’s living room. A half-melted package of frozen peas was pressed to Dimitri’s left eye: Dimitri had been spotted through the front window by the gardener; Felix’s aim could use some improvement.

“Dimitri,” Rodrigue gasped. “What happened? Are you okay? Let me look at that.” He gingerly lifted the pack of frozen peas. 

“It’s okay, Mr. Rodrigue,” Dimitri said. “There’s no bruise or anything.”

Rodrigue’s mouth formed a thin line. “Felix. Explain. Now.” 

“What? Nothing happened,” Felix whined. “It’s not a big deal, okay?”

 _“Felix Hugo Fraldarius,”_ Rodrigue hissed. “We do not _roughhouse._ Dimitri is younger than you, and If I find out that something happened here, you are going to be in serious trouble, young man.”

“Dad, _stop!_ ” Felix complained. “Ugh, you’re being so _embarrassing._ We were just playing a game. _God._ ” 

Rodrigue blinked. “Dimitri, is that true?”

Dimitri nodded, causing the peas to wiggle with the movement of his head. “Yeah. We were in a zombie invasion, and we were partners at first, but then was a zombie, and Felix, you know, he had to, he had to shoot me in the head, because there was no cure, so I was just going to spread it to everyone.”

“Hmm,” said Rodrigue, who didn’t sound convinced.

“Yeah, _Dad_ ,” said Felix. “We’re teammates. You don’t shoot your teammate. That’s just stupid.”

Felix had thought Dimitri was fragile. But he wasn’t; not really. That was something Felix would learn over the course of years, as they slowly transitioned from teammates, to acquaintances, to friends. As Dimitri tried out for lacrosse in middle school; broke the school record for the discus throw; shot up in high school after a mid-year growth spurt left him six inches taller than Felix.

Dimitri wasn’t fragile. He was just lonely. 

Felix hated fragile. Lonely, though; that he understood.

_____

The library was packed, which was unsurprising, given it was mid-December and finals were rapidly approaching. Felix stared at the file he’d pulled up on his computer— a depressingly blank document named “fucking college apps.” The cursor blinked accusingly.

“This is insane, Felix,” said Dorothea. “When you said you hadn’t done any of your applications yet, I thought you meant you hadn’t submitted anything. I didn’t think you meant you hadn’t _started_.”

“Hey, cut him a little slack,” Sylvain said. “Most normal people are right there with Felix. You’re just a freak.”

Dorothea rolled her eyes. “I’m not surprised yours aren’t done. You don’t care about school.”

“No,” Sylvain said patiently. “I just don’t _only_ care about school.”

“My mistake. That’s an _exceedingly_ large difference. _Very_ significant. ”

“Will both of you just shut the fuck up?” Felix snapped. “You’re giving me a headache. _Christ_.”

“Sorry, Fe,” said Dorothea, with the perfectly honed smugness of someone whose applications had been done for months. “We’ll be quiet.” She gave Sylvain a pointed look. He made a face back at her. “What’s got you stumped? Maybe we can help.”

“Fucking doubt it,” Felix scowled. “You’re going to drama school, and there’s no way I’m taking advice from him. I’ll just do it myself.”

“Maybe there’s an Option C,” said Sylvain slyly. Before Felix had time to react to that ominous announcement, Sylvain stood up, placed two fingers in his mouth, and whistled loudly. 

“What are you doing?” Dorothea hissed. “Stop it.”

Sylvain ignored the dirty looks of the surrounding tables and cupped his hands over his mouth. “Hey! Annette! Over here!”

“Mr. Gautier,” said a passing librarian. “This is a library. If you don’t sit down and lower your voice, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” said Sylvain, who didn’t sound particularly apologetic. He waved wildly.

Felix spotted a flash of red out of the corner of his eye, and then, before he could even breathe, let alone process what was happening, Annette was sliding into the empty seat next to him. 

“Hi,” she said cheerfully. Those industrial blue headphones dangled from her neck. “Whew. Is it just me, or is it, like, actually insane in here? I was trying to find a place to sit so I could do homework, and I swear I just saw some kid try to bite someone—”

“Finals,” Dorothea said sympathetically. “They turn mild-mannered freshmen into blood-sucking demons. I don’t miss those days.”

“Have you guys started studying for finals?” Annette asked. 

“Nah,” Sylvain shrugged. “I’m here because I had to return some books for a friend, Do’s here to kill time, and Felix here,” Sylvain slung an arm around Felix’s shoulders. “Our boy Felix is reaping the consequences of putting off those sweet, sweet college applications until the last minute.”

Felix looked up from his laptop. “I will hunt you for fucking sport.”

“Ooh, what colleges are you applying to?” Annette asked as Sylvain let go of Felix. “If that’s not too personal,” She added quickly. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Or, ack, actually, that puts you in a tough position, because if you say no, it’s like, ‘why’s he saying no? Is he hiding something?’ Just forget I asked.”

“No, it’s fine,” Felix said. Next to Annette, Dorothea gave him a look he couldn’t decipher; at least for the moment, he gave up on trying to. “It’s not some big secret. Just some state schools; some community colleges. Nothing fancy.”

He tried to keep the resignation out of his voice; the bitterness that had planted roots deep within his chest and grew into something sharp and thorned and dark. The quiet shame spiraled into a heat that made him want to cut his own stomach out.

There was nothing shameful about his choices. They were good choices; Felix knew that. But still, somehow, the idea of being anything less than a fucking superhero in Annette’s eyes made Felix feel small.

Annette the perfectionist. Annette the hard worker; the girl with the perfect 4.0. Perfect, brilliant Annette. 

But Annette only smiled.

“Cool,” she said. “Good luck with those. I remember when Mercie was applying. Just hearing about all those tests and exams and — Ugh, I know I have to do it next year, but it just sounds so awful.”

Dorothea sighed dramatically. “You’re preaching to the choir.”

“Yours are already done, you bitch,” said Felix.

“And a girl can’t complain a little?” said Dorothea. “I worked hard on my shit. It is my God-given right to complain about drama schools.”

“You’re a masochist.”

“I’m a _self-aware_ masochist,” Dorothea corrected.

“Okay, but that’s worse,” said Felix. “You do get how that’s worse, right?”

“Weren’t you supposed to be working on something?” said Sylvain.

“I’m trying to,” said Felix testily. “You fuckers just keep talking.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sylvain stood up and slung his backpack over one shoulder. “I get it. We’re leaving. C’mon, Dotty.”

Dorothea raised her arms above her head and stretched. “Promise to bully him into getting some work done, Annette?” 

“I don't know about bullying, but if you need a cheerleader, I’m your girl,” Annette said.

“Close enough.” Dorothea slipped her elbow through Sylvain’s. “Have fun, you crazy kids.”

Felix flipped her off. She blew him a kiss. And then, just like that, he was left alone with Annette.

_____

With Dorothea and Sylvain gone, the table was quieter. Annette had settled into the chair across from him and was taking notes in a spiral-bound notebook. The headphones still hung from her neck, and Felix wondered if it made him a bad person; how much he hoped Annette hadn’t forgotten about them; that she’d decided to leave the door open for conversation as they worked.

His hands hovered over the keyboard. There was no way he was going to be able to relax enough to work on applications, not when he was so vividly aware of Annette sitting in the chair across from him, her copper braids just at the edge of his peripheral vision.

Instead, he started scrolling through Instagram. Unlike most of his classmates, Felix wasn’t on Twitter— apparently, tweeting “kill yourself you fascist piece of shit” at every conservative politician who came across his feed was “against the terms of service” or some other fuckin’ bullshit— but he was still on Instagram. Probably because he didn’t use it enough that the moderators felt the need to ban him from it. 

A new follower request caught his attention. Felix didn’t post any photos on his account—only tagged photos; he mostly still had a profile to keep tabs on Sylvain— which made the request strange. He tapped on the notification:

**_@simplyannie59 has requested to follow you._ **

Annette was much more popular on Instagram than Felix, but that wasn’t surprising given that she actually posted. Felix accepted the request, followed her back, and closed out of the app.

It would probably be easier to focus if Felix wasn’t quite so aware of Annette’s presence: the bracelets on his wrist clattering as she moved her hand across the page; the pastel highlighters she capped and uncapped to color-code her notes; the small crease that appeared between her brows as she studied her computer screen. The sound of her breathing, the repetitive shush of turning pages, the way she bit her lower lip when she was lost in thought. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Annette looked up at Felix. She wrinkled her nose. “What?”

“Nothing,” Felix said.

“No, seriously, what?” Annette said.

“Nothing,” Felix repeated. 

Annette squinted at him. “Then quit staring. _Creep_.”

Around them, the library began to empty out. One hour became two, as the noisy conversations of the students around them faded into a quiet lull, and then to nothing at all as closing time approached. Every time Felix looked up at Annette, she was reading intently. lips moving slightly as her eyes scanned across the page; by the fourth or fifth time he looked up, flinching at every sudden noise, Felix fell into a rhythm. Annette’s presence started to feel comforting, like a steady rain or the background hum of fluorescent lights. It almost felt like hanging out with Dorothea, or even Ingrid when she was in one of her less pigheaded moods. Steady; constant; _safe_.

The operative word, of course, was _almost_. He never quite got there. Savoring the sight of Annette, her lips moving slightly as her eyes scanned across the page, was a fierce, all-consuming heat that made him want to cut his own stomach out.

The circulation desk closed at 6:30. At 6:22, Felix cleared his throat.

“They’re gonna close soon. You need a ride home or something?” He asked.

Annette resurfaced slowly, blinking. “What?”

“In eight minutes they’re gonna kick us out of here,” said Felix. “So? Need a ride?”

Annette glanced down at her phone. “Thanks, but I’m good, actually,” she said. “Mom’s coming from work to get me. She’ll be here in like— five minutes? I’m gonna go wait for her outside.”

“I’ll wait with you,” Felix offered.

He braced himself for the usual song-and-dance of “you don’t have to do that,” but as Annette reached down for her backpack, she didn’t protest. “Awesome. Thanks,” she said, smiling. “We can go sit on one of the benches out front?”

“Sure,” Felix said, and tried to school his features into something placid; uncomplicated. _We._ He liked the sound of that.

There was an empty bench by the recycling bins. As they sat down, Annette pulled her coat tightly around her body for warmth.

“Do you want my scarf?” Felix said. “Seriously. You’re making me cold just looking at you.”

“But then _you’d_ be cold,” Annette said. “Which would make me feel cold, and then you’d offer your hat or something, and this whole rigamarole would spiral until I look like Randy in _A Christmas Story_ and you’re a Felix-sicle.”

“I really don’t think that’s how it works.”

Annette leaned a few inches to the side until she was close enough to nudge Felix with her shoulder. “I’m trying to be nice, you big dummy.”

“Pro-tip for that,” said Felix. “Nice people don’t call other people ‘dummies’.”

“I said I was _trying_ ,” Annette informed him. “Not that I was _succeeding_. You make it really difficult to be nice to you sometimes, you know.”

Felix raised his eyebrows, good-humored. “I just offered you my scarf. You remember that, right? That thing that literally just happened?”

“No, but see, that’s exactly my point,” Annette argued. She let out an exasperated huff. “Just keep your dumb scarf, okay? Let me have this.”

Felix wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he did what he normally did in situations like these and chose to deflect instead. “So, your mom. What’s she think about this band shit?”

“What do you mean?” Annette asked. The crease had reappeared between her brows. “She picks me up from rehearsals sometimes,” she added. She still called band practice “rehearsals.” _Fucking choir kids._ Felix struggled to hide whatever naked affection had got to be all over his features. “She wouldn’t do that if she had, like, a problem with it or whatever.”

“No. I mean,” Felix made a frustrated sound, because what _did_ he mean, really? “Not having a problem with it isn’t the gold standard.”

“Mm,” Annette said. She stuffed her hands in her pockets. “Isn’t it, though? That kind of positive indifference, I mean? ‘My mom’s my biggest fan’ isn’t very ‘rock and roll.’”

“You keep saying shit like that,” Felix said. “Does your idea of what’s ‘rock and roll’ come from _Dateline_?”

Annette huffed. “You know what I mean,” she said. “I love my mom. I really, really do. And she’s _so_ supportive of everything I do. But this is just different. You know? If my mom was our biggest fan, I’d have to take a long, hard look at myself in the mirror and think about what I’m doing wrong to make us so uncool.”

“Nobody said anything about ‘biggest fan,’” Felix said. “But she came to invitationals, at least?”

Annette shook her head. “Work,” she said. “Last-minute. She wanted to come, though.” She was quiet for a moment. “Did your dad come?”

For an instant, Felix was confused, and then he remembered. Right. Annette hadn’t grown up with Rodrigue; she didn’t know any better. “Nope. Something about having the wrong date on the calendar.”

He struggled to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but he must not have tried hard enough, because Annette frowned. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

Felix tried to keep his expression neutral. Placid, even. He was fine; he was fine; he was a fucking _fortress_ of fine If he repeated the lie to himself often enough, maybe one day he’d start to believe it himself. “It’s cool,” he said. “It would’ve been weirder if he came. Because of Glenn. It’s— it _was_ his band too.”

“It must be weird for you. Having me replace him, I mean.” Annette observed. 

“Not really,” Felix lied.

“Um,” said Annette, “I don’t care how well-adjusted you are, it’s still gotta be weird to have some random girl come in and just, like, take over for someone you’ve known your whole life.”

“A little,” Felix admitted. “Just at the start. But it wasn’t about you,” he added quickly, “Anyone new would’ve been just as weird.”

“Okay,” said Annette slowly. Then, “So you’re saying Ingrid would’ve hated anybody, then? Not just me?”

Felix winced. 

“No, it’s okay,” Annette said. “We’re friends now. Or, at least, friendly. She’s teaching me how to drive, you know? I’m still horrible at it, but we’re working up to actually, like, getting past the parking lot. Stick-shifts are murder.” She took a deep breath. “ _Anyway_. I guess I kinda always figured it wasn’t about me, even before we, you know, got on speaking terms. It always felt like I was— I don’t know, some kind of anti-Glenn. Or at least some reminder that things were different now. That didn’t make it feel any better, but,” She shrugged. “It sounds like she really loved him, huh?”

“Not like you’re thinking,” Felix said quickly. Ingrid and Glenn’s relationship defied labels. Hell, it defied logic. They’d known each other for almost a decade, but they hadn’t always been the way they were now. More than best friends. Twin flames, maybe, if he was feeling sentimental.

Felix didn’t know much. Nothing specific; nothing about what changed, or when exactly, or why. All he knew was one spring afternoon, Glenn had given Ingrid a ride home from soccer practice and they’d hit traffic on the way. Two hours later, when Glenn pulled into the driveway, he shut himself in his bedroom and didn’t come out for a long, long time. Things were different from then on.

“It bothers you,” said Annette suddenly.

Felix blinked. “What?”

“It bothers you,” she said, again, like that was an answer, and _fuck,_ Felix was suddenly tired, so tired that he lacked the energy to lie to her. 

He stared at the ground, eyes burning. What did Annette know about it, any of it, how much being offered tenderness could feel like a bruise, like despair, like proof you’d been ruined? Annette, who could say, ‘my mom calls me ladybug’ the way Felix would say, ‘it’s raining outside.’ 

"Sorry, we can't all be fucking—Pollyanna," Felix bit out.

“Dimitri’s dad wasn’t there either,” said Annette simply. “Except that’s different, and I know that’s different, because when we talked after the show, he sounded relieved.” She frowned. “He said his dad doesn’t even really know about the band. He thinks we just hang out and— and play music or something. That no one’s serious about anything. Then he said that you told him you’d cover for him if—”

Felix didn’t particularly want to get into what he’d promised Dimitri. “Most of that was just straight-up lies,” he said. “Dimitri’s an old man. He forgets people have cell phones. Cameras. Videos. Social media. Lambert probably already knows, but they’re doing that WASP-y shit of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’—”

Annette frowned. “You know, when you said your dad wasn’t home a lot, I figured—he was home more than you said. Y’know, since you made it sound like—”

“He’s not—” Felix got out, and Annette said,

“I know. I’m sorry,” so sincerely that Felix had to look away.

The truth of their relationship was way more complicated. Even if Felix felt like getting into it, here, on the iron bench beneath the flagpole, he wouldn’t know where to start. He wanted to cover his face with his hands. The thought of Annette seeing him like this, seeing the cowardice written so plainly on his features, filled him with an unspeakable shame.

“My point is,” Annette continued fiercely. “If you wanted him there, he should’ve been there. I don’t care if it would’ve been weird without Glenn. I don’t care if it’s just invitationals. _I don’t care_ —”

Felix frowned. “I didn’t say I—”

“You didn’t have to,” said Annette. “I talked to Dimitri, remember? I know what it looks like when someone doesn’t want his dad to come to a gig, and that’s not what you look like right now. Not even close.”

“Easy there, Nancy Drew,” said Felix, swallowing. “It’s nothing like that, it’s just—he’s just some asshole with a Filofax who can’t keep track of his own kid’s—” He couldn’t meet Annette’s eyes; he couldn’t stand to face her pity. “You’re right. It bothers me,” he said quietly.

“Hey.” Annette rested her hand on top of Felix’s hand. Her fingers were soft, almost careful on his skin. Like she was worried about breaking him. The idea would’ve made him laugh, if he wasn’t so shocked by what felt like to be handled so gently. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, okay/”

Felix nodded. Annette gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Want to, uh, tell me about those college apps you were working on?”

When Felix looked up, Annette’s expression bordered on hopeful. Felix didn’t know when that had happened; how long he’d been someone whose shattered pieces made her react with kindness. Annette still hadn’t moved her hand, and as she talked, her fingers lightly pressed against his palm. Felix made an executive decision not to point this out. 

“Was this all a long con to get me to talk about college?” he said instead.

Annette laughed. “You caught me. You thought we were playing checkers, but I was playing chess.”

“Five-dimensional chess,” Felix said dryly. “Remind me never to cross you.”

“Damn right,” Annette said. “You think you’ve seen scary, but you ain’t seen _nothing_ yet. I’m straight-up terrifying.”

“Okay, Don Vito,” said Felix. “You made your point. What do you want to know?”

“Just what you’re interested in,” Annette said. “I mean, if you know. I definitely don’t. It’s like, I’m sixteen. I can’t even go to the bathroom without a hall pass and you want me to commit to a career? Give me a break.”

It occurred to Felix that he hadn’t ever heard Annette sound so jaded. “What makes you think I know what I’m doing?” he said. “You have a color-coded planner. If you don’t know what you’re doing after high school, then, shit, what hope is there for the rest of us?” He tried to make this sound witty and not completely pathetic. Felix had been failing at the whole ‘not sounding pathetic’ thing lately.

“That’s the thing, though,” said Annette. “What if I have a color-coded planner _because_ I don’t know what I’m doing? What if—” She trailed off. “I sometimes feel like I’m just— performing at being someone I’m not?” Her voice pitched, turning her sentence into something halfway between a statement and a question. “And I just keep hoping that someday something will just click and I’ll be who everybody thinks I am.”

There was something in the way she said those words. A slight hitch to the cadence of her voice; a slight wrinkle in the motion of her mouth, that made Felix feel like Annette was hiding something. Half-formed images of perfect scores and faceless parents danced in his head.

“But enough about me,” Annette continued breezily. “I wanna hear about you. So? Do you know what you wanna study next year?”

“Uh,” said Felix, violently aware that she still hadn’t moved her hand. “I dunno. Film, maybe?”

He tensed, waiting for the familiar lecture about majoring in something practical, finding a job in a tough economy, student loans— but it never came. 

Annette’s eyes were shining. “Oh, that’s so exciting! Like directing, or editing, or cinematography, or— oh, wait, that’s stupid, you probably don’t know yet. That’s way far off. But oh, _Felix_ —” she said breathlessly. The way his name sounded in her mouth was like a prayer. “That’s so cool. Promise you’ll remember me when you’re super-rich and living in Hollywood, okay?”

“I have to get into college first,” said Felix, slightly baffled by the amount of misplaced faith she had in him.

Annette made a face. “Small potatoes. You will. I know you will. Don’t be such a pessimist.”

“If I’m a pessimist, you’re a— fuck, what’s it called? Cock-eyed optimist?” Felix said.

“There are worse things to be,” Annette said. “I’d rather be dumb and happy than smart and miserable. Wouldn’t you?”

“You’re acting like we all have a choice,” said Felix.

A silver sedan pulled into the parking lot. Annette’s gaze followed it as it slowly approached the front of the school. “Maybe,” Annette mused. “Maybe that’s just because I want to believe I can change things if I just believe hard enough.”

The driver of the sedan honked the horn. Annette stood up. “That’s my cue. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Distantly, Felix remembered: right. Practice. “Uh, yeah. I’ll be there.”

As the car drove away, Felix pulled out his phone and tapped on Annette’s contact information.

_annette [angel emoji]_

He replaced the angel emoji with a ladybug and slipped his phone back in his pocket.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am not. Or— or okay, if I am, it’s not because of —” Annette stammered. “How would you like it if I just went around accusing you of just being in love with people, huh? Like oh, you mentioned Mercie’s name one time, that must mean you’re in love with her —”
> 
> “Nobody said in love,” Ingrid argued. “There’s a difference between love and in love.”
> 
> “Oh, so now the angry spinster is going to preach to us,” said Sylvain. 
> 
> “Better a spinster than a slut,” said Ingrid, but her words didn’t have any bite to them. Sylvain nudged her affectionately with his shoulder.
> 
> “Are we ever going to fucking rehearse?” Felix slammed the lid of his guitar case shut with an indignant thump. “If you’re just gonna stand around and gossip for the next two hours, I’m going home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor content warnings for underage drinking/partying, etc., biphobia. Major content warning for a description of what's probably a panic attack and dubious consent (it's drunken kissing & they're both into it, but obviously, they can't fully consent)

December came to a close in a blur of final papers, late-night cram sessions, and many (many) cups of coffee. Annette felt like a zombie as she sleep-walked through the last few days of classes before the end of the term. One early morning, she stumbled down the stairs and was halfway out the front door before she realized she was still wearing her pajama pants underneath her uniform skirt. 

Judging by the exhausted expressions on her classmates’ faces as they trudged through the halls of Garegg Mach, she wasn’t the only one looking forward to winter break. Far from it.

That said, when Ignatz Victor showed up to History with an enormous cup of coffee and dark circles under his eyes, he looked so beaten down that Annette felt a twinge of alarm. 

“Hey, um, Ignatz?” She said tentatively. They still had a few minutes before the warning bell; the classroom was mostly empty. “Is everything okay?”

“What?” Ignatz’s voice was distant. It sounded like he was emerging from deep hibernation. “Oh. No. Thanks, but I’m doing fine. Finals are, um, stressful, I guess, but other than that, everything’s hunky-dory.” 

Annette squared her shoulders. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Uh,” said Ignatz. “I guess that depends? If you mean the last time I was asleep, I slept a little on the bus—” He faltered. “But, ah, I feel like that’s not really what you’re asking. Um, maybe last week? But seriously, I’m doing fine—”

“Um,” Annette said, “I wasn’t going to mention it, but just between you and me, you seem a little—” She hesitated and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Well. Your socks are two different colors.”

A look of pure panic flashed across Ignatz’s face and Annette hastily added, “No, they’re really close, like, basically the same color, or _really_ close. I literally didn’t even realize until now, and that’s only because I was looking. I’m sure nobody even noticed—”

“But you noticed,” Ignatz said mournfully. He ran a hand through his hair. “Ugh. I hate exam season. How are you so calm about all of this—?”

“Me? _Calm_ _?”_ The idea was so foreign to Annette that she laughed. “Oh, I’m not calm _at all_. I’m so stressed that my brain’s basically stopped functioning. Like, I’m basically a shell of a person right now.”

“Why do they do this to us?” Ignatz asked. A little color had returned to his cheeks, which Annette noted with relief. “All these exams all at once. Will you go to my funeral if my dad takes one look at my algebra grade and just straight-up murders me?”

“Don’t say that,” Annette started, just as she registered him mumbling,

“It’s not like I even wanted to take stupid algebra.”

“Hey,” said Annette gently, “it’s gonna be okay. Seriously. I’m not that great at math either, but Ashe and I have this study group with Lysithea, who’s just, like, a genius at absolute everything, and I swear, she’s just saved my _life_ —”

“No, it’s not—” Ignatz began. “I— I mean I appreciate the advice, but it’s more just, I don’t know.” He shook his head. “My dad has all these plans _about_ me but none of them are _for_ me. It’s like, I don’t know, I’m not even there.” 

Annette rested her chin on her hand. “Like what?”

“Like—” Ignatz winced. “My older brother, Louis—he always wanted to be an actor. My dad said there was no way he’d pay for drama school, so now he’s getting his MBA and he’s just _miserable,_ but my dad just doesn’t see that. All he sees is business, money, jobs. And he, I don’t know, wants the same thing for me.”

“That’s awful,” Annette said. “You’re not a _businessman_ , you’re an _artist._ Remember all those self-portraits you made of everybody in Freshman English—”

Ignatz’s expression changed abruptly. A light blush settled on his cheeks. “Oh, you, ah. You remember that?”

“Of course I do,” Annette told him. “I still have the one you made for me.” It was lovingly pressed between an antique frame on her bedroom wall, but that felt too personal to say out loud. “You’re really talented, you know? If you need someone to go to bat for you with your dad, just say the word, okay?”

Ignatz accepted the offer with a hesitant nod. “That’s, ah, that’s really nice of you to say,” he stammered. “But I’m— I don’t know, now that I’m saying all of this out loud, it seems kind of petty.”

“It’s not petty,” Annette said firmly. Then, more gently, she added, “But I get what you're saying”

That earned her a surprised look. “You do?”

Annette had a lifetime of experience being her father’s pride and joy and wanting to kill him for it.

“Who doesn’t?” She said lightly. The warning bell rang, ushering in a sea of students as the rest of their class filtered in from the hallway. “This is a really good school. There's no one here who isn't dealing with a metric ton of pressure.”

In her peripheral vision, it almost looked like Ignatz’s face fell. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I know what you mean.”

_____

Annette kept an eye on Ignatz for the rest of class. When the bell rang to dismiss them for the afternoon, she watched Ignatz gather his pencils, stuff his notebooks into a binder, and sling his backpack over one shoulder with the grim finality of a soldier going off to war. There was something in the set of his jaw, the resigned stiffness of his posture, and the distant fog in his eyes that reminded Annette of her father. 

Maybe that was why, instead of silently watching him leave the classroom Annette spoke up. With as much lightness as she could manage, she said:

“Are you heading to Art Club?”

“Uh, yeah, actually,” Ignatz said, sounding a little surprised. Annette wasn’t sure whether she should be offended on her own behalf or Ignatz’s that he’d assumed she didn’t care enough to remember her friends’ extracurricular activities. “We’re doing collages today— you know, like Hannah Hoch?” Annette nodded like she understood (she didn’t). “Lots of newspapers and glue if you, ah— if you wanna come?”

“I can’t,” Annette said regretfully. “I have rehearsal.”

“Oh, right, for your band thing,” Ignatz said. “Claude was telling me about that. He says you guys are really good.”

“He said that?” Annette said, touched. She’d seen Claude in passing around school, but the last time they’d talked — if it even counted as talking — was his back-to-school party. Before then, she hadn’t been entirely confident that Claude even knew her name. It felt strange to think about how much things had changed in just a few months.

“Oh yeah,” said Ignatz as the two of them began to walk down the deserted hallway. “He kept trying to get us all to come to that competition thing back in, uh, September —”

“October—” Annette corrected automatically.

“Right. October,” Ignatz agreed. “And since then, he’s been on this whole kick about—” He cut himself off with a frown. “Uh, on second thought, maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this, actually.”

“Oh, come _on,_ you can’t stop there,” Annette said. “What, is there some juicy gossip I don’t know about? If that’s true, then you _really_ have to tell me. I mean, it’s just like, the rules of friendship.”

“I don’t know. It feels weird,” said Ignatz. “Even if it’s not, you know, exactly _private_ stuff, it feels— did he really not tell you guys any of this?’

Annette shrugged. “It’s possible. But you know me. I’m a total space cadet. Like, head in the clouds 24/7 stuff. Maybe he told Sylvain or something and I just never got the memo.”

“Maybe,” said Ignatz. He sounded wary. “It’s really not that interesting. For some reason, he really likes your band— not that I think you guys aren’t great,” he continued hastily, “Or wouldn’t be great, because I just don’t know, um, firsthand.”

After an awkward pause, Ignatz fiddled with the straps of his backpack and added, “But, um, when’s your next thing? So I can make sure to um, actually know firsthand.”

Annette thought for a moment. “February,” she said. “We don’t know dates yet, though. But I can— I’ll text you when I know more info, okay?”

A flicker of some implacable expression whisked across Ignatz’s face before, in an instant, it was gone. “That’d be really great,” he said. “If you, ah, could—”

“It’s no trouble,” Annette said.

They’d reached the end of the hallway: through the set of double-doors was Annex B; continuing down the hallway lay the art room. When Ignatz didn’t immediately say anything, Annette spoke up:

“So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

There it was again— that strange, unknowable expression. Before Annette could wonder what it meant, Ignatz gave her an awkward nod. 

“Yeah, uh, I— have a nice rehearsal.”

Annette gave him a quick smile in reply and pushed through the double-doors.

_____

“So, uh, I just found out the weirdest thing,” Annette said once they were all gathered in the annex. “Apparently Claude’s been, like, talking up the band to people?”

“Does he own stock in us or something?” Ingrid asked coolly.

“I didn’t know we had stock options,” Annette said. “No, but seriously, Ignatz said Claude said we were, and I quote, ‘really good.’ Isn’t that so weird?”

“Is it really that shocking that Claude recognizes our raw, innate talent?” Sylvain pointed out, kneeling on the tile to fiddle with an amp.

“I guess not,” Annette said absently. “But why’s he telling Ignatz? I mean, no offense to Ignatz, I love Ignatz, but I didn’t even know they were friends.”

“You love Ignatz?” said Dimitri from across the room. Distantly, Annette realized he’d gone very still when she’d mentioned Claude’s name, like a jackrabbit tensing at the sounds of predators. Now, he was staring at her with an expression that was somewhere between confusion and curiosity. Annette’s cheeks burned.

“What? Oh my God, no, _no,_ not like— it was a figure of speech,” Annette pleaded.

“Aww, you’re blushing,” Sylvain cooed.

“I am not. Or— or okay, if I am, it’s not because of —” Annette stammered. “How would you like it if I just went around accusing _you_ of just being _in love_ with people, huh? Like oh, you mentioned Mercie’s name one time, that must mean you’re _in love with her_ —”

“Nobody said _in love,”_ Ingrid argued. “There’s a difference between _love_ and _in love_.”

“Oh, so now the angry spinster is going to preach to us,” said Sylvain. 

“Better a spinster than a slut,” said Ingrid, but her words didn’t have any bite to them. Sylvain nudged her affectionately with his shoulder.

“Are we ever going to fucking rehearse?” Felix slammed the lid of his guitar case shut with an indignant thump. “If you’re just gonna stand around and gossip for the next two hours, I’m going home.”

_____

On Friday afternoon, the semester ended with a whimper. Annette’s English exam was scheduled to last the full period; it took her twenty minutes to breeze through the multiple-choice section and another fifteen to crank out a halfway decent essay about _Wuthering Heights._ She shouldn’t have been surprised; English had always been her best subject and she’d read _Heights_ enough times that she could quote it from memory. 

It should’ve felt nice; to end the semester on a high note like that. But Annette had stayed up until three the night before going over her flashcards and passage analyses from her notes; as she trudged toward the front of the school to wait for Mercedes, it felt a little anticlimactic.

Dorothea was sitting on a bench by the side door, dusk-colored Juul in her right hand and a cloud of smoke exhaling from her lips. _West Side Story_ had closed the week before; Dorothea, Annette suspected, felt listless without a project to keep her busy. Unmoored, even; like she was drifting on the open sea without an anchor.

But maybe that was just Annette projecting what she wanted to see.

“How did your exams go?” Annette asked.

“Good,” Dorothea said, picking at the edges of her matte lipstick. “Not that it matters at this point. But, still. Good. How were yours?”

“Oh, fine,” Annette said. “Exams are exams,” and then, on the off chance it would make Dorothea smile, added, “You’re going to Dimitri’s tomorrow, right?”

Dorothea shrugged. “Yeah. With Ingrid,” she said. “We’re going together.”

Annette’s eyes widened. “Going together.”

“Oh my God,” Dorothea said. “Your mind went _there?_ No one’s said ‘going together’ since, like, the _fifties_.”

“You sound like Felix,” Annette said with a smile. “I tried to get him to watch _Say Anything_ which, whoa, bad move. He hates John Cusack now. It’s like, almost personal.”

Dorothea’s eyebrows arched in that graceful way of hers that Annette, even after all this time, furiously envied. “First you got Felix to listen to a cast recording. Now, he’s watching rom-coms?” She exhaled a puff of smoke. “Why are you so special?”

It was so abrupt that it left Annette reeling. “I’m not,” She said, confused. “It doesn’t— it’s just a movie. It’s not like I asked him for, like, a kidney or something—”

Dorothea pursed her lips. “Annette,” she said, “I’ve known Felix since we were freshmen. I know Felix, and Felix doesn’t give ground to anybody. For any reason. Ever.” She leveled Annette with an incredulous look. “Why does he keep saying yes to you?”

“I ask nicely,” Annette said. “You should try it sometime.”

It came out meaner than she’d intended. Sharper; almost acidic. She wasn’t sure why. 

Dorothea eyed her a bit longer, then shook her head and relaxed against the back of the bench again. 

“How did you and Felix— uh, I mean, when did—” Annette said, stumbling over her words. “You said freshman year? Was it class, or, ah—”

“Are you asking how we became friends when we basically have nothing in common?” Dorothea finished. Laughing a little at Annette’s stricken expression, she waved a hand. “No, no, no need to be coy about it. It’s — I mean, yeah, I wonder, sometimes, too. People tend to think I met him through Sylvain, but nope, it was the other way around.”

Annette’s brow furrowed. “Wait. Felix introduced you to Sylvain?”

“Not intentionally,” Dorothea said lightly. “Honestly, I think if he _had_ tried to set us up, it would’ve backfired so spectacularly that I wouldn’t be friends with any of you. No, I met Sylvain when he brought Felix to someone’s birthday party— hmm, whose was it? Oh!” She clapped her hands together. “I remember now. It was Hilda’s.”

“Hilda’s?” Annette asked. “Hilda _Goneril?”_

“Don’t look so scandalized,” said Dorothea. “Glenn didn’t dump Holst until July, so it wasn’t a faux pas for Felix to show up to her birthday that year—”

“Felix and Hilda’s older brothers were _dating_?”

“Oh, yeah, for like, a long time,” Dorothea said, blinking in surprise. “ It made things super awkward one year because Glenn got Hilda a gift for her birthday but Holst didn’t get one for Felix. He tried to play it off like this ‘oh, I asked Felix what he wanted and he just kept asking for a sword, and that sounded dangerous’ or something, but Glenn knew he just forgot.”

“We’re getting off-track,” Annette said weakly, struggling to keep up with the onslaught of information. She took a sip from her water bottle. “You were gonna tell me how you and Felix met?”

Dorothea tapped her index finger against her chin. “‘Met’ or ‘became friends’?” She asked. “Those are two different stories.” She crossed one leg over the other in a fluid, graceful motion. “We met in Bio. We became friends… oh, probably at the end of October, when I dumped iced coffee on his head.”

Annette sputtered a mouthful of water onto the asphalt. She coughed. “You did _what_?”

“In my defense, fourteen-year-old Felix was a dick. He went through this whole ‘if she breathes, she’s a thot’ phase — like, some dumb MRA shit he got online or something. I don’t know. He didn’t really believe it, but it didn’t matter. One day, he made some comments about boys being stronger than girls, and I wanna say I was PMSing, or I was possessed by the spirit of Athena, but honestly, I was just fed up. So I just… you know.” Dorothea shrugged. “Sloosh.”

Annette’s jaw dropped. “You dumped iced coffee on him,” she said dumbly. “And that somehow worked, and you guys became friends? I mean, what the _hell_ —”

“I ended up with in-school suspension for a week,” said Dorothea, almost casually. “When I came back to Bio, things were different. We had Bio right before lunch— tragic, considering we spent a _lot_ of time on dissections— and one day when all the tables were full, we ate lunch together. but then the next day, when the lunchroom was back to normal, we _kept_ eating lunch together. And somewhere along the line, lunch turned into hanging out after school, too.”

Dorothea must’ve caught some of the incredulous look on Annette’s face, because she laughed. “Look, I know. It’s insane, right?” Her expression softened. “But I was a lonely kid. We both were. And lonely kids, the types of kids who don’t know how to 'do casual’— well. We’re not too picky about where our friends come from.”

“You were lonely?” Annette said, stunned. “But you’re so— I mean, you’re so popular.”

“Popular doesn’t mean much,” Dorothea said quietly. “I’m a performer, and a damn good one, too. I know how people want me to act. And— and anyways, it doesn’t matter. Once people have this invented idea of you, it’s almost like— anything that doesn’t fit doesn’t count.” 

Annette looked down at her hands, and then back up at Dorothea.

“What time are you and Ingrid going to Dimitri’s?” She asked.

“Probably around nine,” said Dorothea. “Why?”

“Can I get a ride?”

Dorothea smiled.

_____

Annette had assumed that Dimitri’s birthday party would be on the smaller side. That’s how Felix had made it sound, at least. Just a small, intimate get-together of a few friends, some pizza, and maybe a few beers.

The long line of expensive cars parked outside Felix’s house told a different story. In retrospect, it wasn’t all that surprising; Sylvain had handled the guest list, and he loved big parties. As Ingrid pulled into the cul de sac, Annette spotted Marianne and Hilda stepping out of a small grey sedan.

“Ready?” Dorothea had asked when they’d parked, giving Annette’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Behind them, Ingrid triple-checked to make sure the Jeep was locked. 

Annette had let out a breath of air. She’d squared her shoulders. “As I’ll ever be,” she’d said. She’d meant it.

The last party Annette had been to was Hilda’s Halloween party, so it wasn’t fair to expect anything similar from Felix, but Annette couldn’t help marveling at the contrast between the two of them. Hilda’s party had been loud, garish, and overwhelming. Felix’s, on the other hand, while still loud (it was a party, wasn’t it?), felt warmer; more comfortable; less strange. 

Maybe that was down to Felix’s laissez-faire party style. Aside from the music playing through the speakers and the assortment of drinks on his kitchen table, he didn’t seem to be “hosting” so much as he was reluctantly letting other people throw a party at his house. 

Then again, maybe it wasn’t _so_ reluctant. Annette caught a glimpse of him from across the room earlier in the night, wearing his dark hair in a messy knot at the back of his head and a few leather bracelets on his wrist. In between sips of beer, he’d been talking to Ingrid. He looked relaxed. Happy, even.

Annette had been too far away to overhear, and she couldn’t read lips, so she didn’t know what they were talking about. For some reason, a flicker of jealousy blossomed in the pit of her stomach. 

Against her better judgment, Annette went into the kitchen and tossed back a shot of vodka. It burned her throat on the way down. Trying not to gag, she cracked open a can of White Claw from the table and took a long, greedy sip from the container.

“You good?” said a voice from behind her. Annette whirled around to find Claude leaning against the kitchen island, a look somewhere between apprehension and amusement in his eyes.

“Whaddya mean?” Annette said. She tried not to wince.

“The last time I saw you take a shot, I was cleaning vomit off my driveway for a month,” said Claude.

“That was one time,” Annette said, cheeks burning. “People don’t throw up every time they drink. Otherwise, no one would ever drink! We wouldn’t have bars, or clubs, or— or— anti-drunk driving PSAs—”

“Maybe not every time,” Claude admitted magnanimously, “but you have to admit, I’m working with limited intel. The one time you party is the one time you get alcohol poisoning—”

“That wasn’t the only time I went to a party,” Annette got out. “I went to Hilda’s. You know, for Halloween. You were at Hilda’s. I know you were.”

Claude raised an eyebrow. “I said party, not _go to a party._ ”

“There’s a difference?” said Annette. “Okay, whoa, that’s not fair. It’s like, who died and made you king of parties—”

“Prospero,” said Claude. Annette put down her can of White Claw on the kitchen table and stared at him blankly. Before she had the chance to process what Claude had said, he was already changing tactics. “Say, how’s that band of yours going?”

“Um.” Annette blinked. “Good. We’re—actually, now that you mention it, Ignatz was saying—”

“Was he? Good old Ignatz. I keep telling him he should speak up more—”

“Um, no, that’s not really what I— what I’m trying to tell you is that Ignatz told _me_ you were—”

“And just think, if it wasn’t for my humble karaoke machine, you wouldn’t even be here,” said Claude. “Crazy how things change, isn’t it?”

“Will you just —” Annette started, before a thought occurred to her. She paused. “Wait. Claude. Why are _you_ here?”

The cocky smirk dimmed slightly. “Do you mean, metaphysically? I’m not high enough for that shit yet, but if you give me an hour—”

“Sylvain was in charge of inviting people,” Annette said slowly. “And I’ve never seen you guys together—”

“Hilda,” Claude offered with a shrug. He was speaking a little too quickly, she thought; stumbling over his words in an attempt to force them out of his mouth. “Sylvain invites Hilda; Hilda’s car’s in the shop; Hilda needs a ride, so I gave her a ride. We show up; the place looks fun; I think, hey, what the hell—”

 _Hilda_. Annette had seen Hilda, hadn’t she? Earlier in the night, when she, Ingrid, and Dorothea had shown up at the party. She’d seen Hilda stepping out of a grey sedan, checking her lipstick in the passenger-side mirror, and she’d seen the driver of the car, too—

Annette shook her head. “No,” she said distantly. “I saw Hilda. She was with Marianne.”

Claude paled. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. 

She’d never seen Claude von Riegan look so… _afraid_.

“Claude,” Annette leaned in, voice crackling with intensity. _“_ _Why are you here ?”_

“Hey, you guys,” said Sylvain, appearing around the corner with a cup full of lukewarm beer in his hand. “We’re gonna play truth or dare if you wanna join.”

“I love games,” Claude said. In an instant, the crackling intensity was gone; the tension wiped from his face as if it had never been there at all. “Yo, Annette, you coming?”

Annette stared at him. Was this how it was going to be, then? 

“Sure,” she said brightly. “Lead the way.”

_____

A motley group sat in a circle on the floor of Felix’s living room. Most of them Annette recognized— Hilda, Marianne, Dimitri, Dorothea, Ingrid among them — but some of the faces in the circle were strangers. Including Sylvain, Claude, and herself, there were about sixteen players (seventeen if she included Felix, who was perched on an armchair in the corner and casting a wary eye on the whole affair. Annette didn’t think he approved of any of this.)

“Oo-kay, so,” announced Hilda, clapping her hands together. “Anybody need a little refresh on the rules?”

“Maybe remind the birthday boy,” said Sylvain, nudging Dimitri with his shoulder. “Dima here’s never played Truth or Dare before.”

Hilda turned to Dimitri, eyes wide. “Oh my God, Dimitri. You’ve never played Truth or Dare before? No _way._ ” 

_“Yeah_ , way,” muttered Ingrid under her breath, in an exaggerated valley girl accent.

Hilda ignored her. Alternatively, she was drunk enough that she didn’t care. “So, it’s _super_ simple. We just spin the bottle,” she gestured to an empty two-liter bottle of soda in the center of the circle, “and whoever it lands on has to do a truth— that’s just a question, or whatever — or a dare. And then, once you do it, you get to spin the bottle and you get to ask whoever it lands on, and then it just keeps going, yada-yada-yada.”

“What about penalties for chickening out?” Claude asked. “What happens if you don’t do the truth or dare?”

“Maybe you have to kiss Dimitri,” Hilda offered.

Dimitri sputtered. “What? Um, no thanks.”

“We could make them go streak down the block,” said Sylvain.

“It’s like, negative twenty outside,” said Ingrid. “That could kill somebody.”

“How about you just have to take a shot?” said Dorothea wearily.

“Okay, fine,” said Claude. _“Boring._ Hey, birthday boy, let’s start with you. Truth or dare?”

“Uh… dare,” said Dimitri, eyeing Claude warily from across the circle. 

“I dare you to…” Claude thought for a moment. “Take off one of your socks using your teeth.”

Annette looked at Dimitri, expecting some doubt, some confusion at the strangeness of the dare, but Dimitri’s expression was something she couldn’t place. He looked at Claude, and the barest hint of a smile teased at the corners of his lips. Like this was something he’d been expecting, somehow; like this was some kind of bizarre inside joke or reference that the rest of them couldn’t understand. 

“Lame,” said Dimitri. And then, in one fluid motion, without breaking eye contact, he brought his foot close enough to his mouth to pull off his dark grey sock.

A chorus of “ _ew”_ and _“oh my god”_ echoed around the circle. Claude laughed. “Not bad for your first dare,” he said. “Alright, now you spin.”

Dimitri spun. The bottle landed on Marianne. “Marianne. Truth or dare?”

“Um…” Marianne said, in a voice so quiet that Annette strained to hear her. “Truth?”

“What’s your favorite color?”

The entire circle groaned.

“No, no,” said Sylvain over the noise. “Okay, no, Dima that’s a good start, but that’s not really how we play this game. The point is to ask questions that are a little spicy.”

“Oh,” said Dimitri glumly. 

“No, no, it’s okay,” said Sylvain, clapping him on the back. “Good try, buddy. Anyone wanna volunteer a question for Marianne?”

“I’ll go,” said a pretty sophomore from Annette’s French class. She fixed Marianne with a curious look. “Have you kissed someone in this room?”

Across the circle from Marianne, Hilda was suddenly very interested in picking at her cuticles.

“Y-yes,” Marianne stuttered. Her cheeks were a bright, brilliant red.

“What?” Ingrid shrieked. “Oh my god—”

“Who?” asked someone else. 

“Oh my god, she’s blushing so much—” came another voice. 

“That wasn’t the question,” Marianne snapped.

The girl shrugged. “Whatever. It’s your turn to spin.”

_____

Annette lost track of how many times the bottle spun around the circle, but then, at some point in the night, she’d stopped paying much attention to the game. The questions got boring after the third or fourth round, and most of the dares were so wildly impossible that the group had gone through an entire half-liter container of penalty Grey Goose by the time Claude instituted a new rule that forfeiting a dare meant you had to answer a truth instead.

Speaking of shots— how many shots had Annette had? She felt a little woozy.

“Dorothea,” said a senior that Annette vaguely recognized. What was her name? _Anna_? It was Anna, right? “Truth or dare?”

Dorothea leveled the girl with a cool smirk. “Obviously, dare,” she said.

Anna grinned. “I dare you…” She paused for dramatic effect. “to kiss Jake.”

“What?” Dorothea shrieked. 

Jake, a reedy tenor, waved awkwardly at Dorothea from across the room. In an instant, Dorothea’s bravado crumbled. Annette watched as all the color drained from her face.

Next to Dorothea in the circle, Ingrid looked like she was going to be sick.

“I’m up for it,” said Jake nervously. 

A cacophony of voices filled the room with noise:

“You have to do it. That’s the dare.”

“Go on. It’s just one little kiss.”

“Yeah, come on, it’ll be fun.”

“Don’t be a prude. Like, you’re bi, right?”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Dorothea asked sharply. “Oh, wait, now I get it. I’m bi, and that means I’m a slut who’ll just — just shove my tongue down anyone’s throat if they ask me politely. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what is this, the _eighties?_ That’s like _comically_ outdated biphobia.”

“Come on, Dorothea. Calm down. It’s just a dare,” said Anna, pushing Jake towards Dorothea. “And it could be way worse. He’s a good kisser.”

“Oh, my God, _shut up,”_ hissed Jake. He turned to Dorothea and gave a light, nervous laugh. “So, um, do you… or should I? You know, just for the dare, _haha_!” 

Ingrid’s jaw worked furiously. Annette half-expected her to leap into the circle and claw out his eyes.

“No,” said Dorothea. Her voice wavered. She shook her head, and repeated, more fiercely, “No, I don’t want to.”

“Oh,” said Jake weakly. He scooted back across the circle, taking his place next to Anna. “Oh, that’s fine, I— I didn’t care anyway, so… _haha_.”

“Okay, but you have to answer a truth instead,” said Anna. “Those are the rules. Take the penalty.”

“Fine,” said Dorothea flatly, in a voice that communicated she was bored of the game.

“Who gave you the hickey?”

Almost immediately, the tension in the circle erupted into chaos. 

“What the fuck?” Claude asked.

“That’s too personal,” said Dimitri. “This is supposed to be fun.”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Marianne said quietly.

Dorothea had the stunned, startled look of a deer in headlines. As she looked around the circle, desperately searching for someone, anyone to save her, her long fingers pressed against the bruise on her neck. 

“Um—” She said. “Um, I—”

Annette hadn’t even noticed it. Maybe Dorothea had been hiding it under her necklaces. Maybe she’d been covering it with makeup. Maybe she’d passed it off as a burn from her curling iron and Annette hadn’t thought to question it.

Or maybe, Annette just hadn’t been looking. 

“Come on, that’s not an answer!” someone complained.

Another voice chimed in: ‘What’s the point of truth or dare if we’re allowed to keep secrets?”

“This is supposed to be a game, not the Spanish Inquisition,” said Claude.

“Yeah!” Hilda agreed.

A junior from Dimitri’s band class rolled his eyes. “Grow up. Weren’t you just complaining about boring questions?”

“I wanted something exciting, not _invasive_ ,” Sylvain interrupted. “Christ, just ask something else.” 

The squabbling crescendoed, voices cutting in and over one another, the volume building and building in the room until the group was shouting to be heard above the fray, syllables landing harshly and squarely in the center of the room, sentences echoing off of the walls and the hardwood floors as tempers rose with every passing second that—

“I know who it was,” Ingrid said.

The room fell silent. Heads swiveled around to look at Ingrid, fixing her with probing glances and skeptical frowns. It was quiet enough that Annette could hear herself swallow, hard; the roar of blood rushing in her veins. In the other room, music still poured out from Bluetooth speakers. Annette’s heartbeat pounded in time with the frenetic bass.

Ingrid wasn’t looking at any of them.

An entire unspoken conversation passed between Ingrid and Dorothea. Ingrid’s expression was an earnest question and she waited, silently, for Dorothea to answer. Slowly, Dorothea’s confusion melted into fear, before it passed through longing, understanding, and finally, delicately, settled on something like hope. 

Ingrid raised an eyebrow. A slow smile crept across Dorothea’s lips, blossoming into a bright, brilliant happiness that made Annette feel like she was watching something intimate.

Dorothea nodded.

“Me,” Ingrid said. She took Dorothea’s hand, lacing their fingers together, as she gave the room a small, brave smile. “It was, uh, me. We’re dating.”

For a moment, there was only stunned silence. 

Hilda was the first to respond. “Oh my God, I knew it!” She shrieked.

Marianne shot her a look. “Don’t say that. That’s so rude.”

“But you were just saying the other day—”

Claude shushed her. 

A chorus of voices interrupted each other as a flurry of questions replaced the silence with a wall of sound. “Ingrid, I didn’t know you—”

“Liked girls?” Ingrid finished. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Aww, you two are so cute together.”

“Oh my God, this is so crazy, I was _just saying_ —”

“You were not—

“No, listen, I totally called it—”

“You didn’t call _anything_ —”

“How long have you been going out?” asked someone in the circle.

“A few months,” said Dorothea, squeezing Ingrid’s hand. A look passed between them, and Ingrid blushed. And that was what finally solidified the reality of things for Annette— this was happening. This was actually happening. Dorothea and Ingrid were dating. And they looked so happy together that Annette couldn't imagine either of them with anyone else.

Her eyes swept the room, looking around at the faces of the crowd as the sea of voices faded into a low hum of background noise. Almost by accident, Annette’s gaze landed on Sylvain. She’d expected some kind of shock, or at least something like surprise, but Sylvain didn’t look upset at the prospect of his best friend dating his ex-girlfriend.

He looked… _relieved._

The expression on Sylvain’s face wasn’t the expression of someone finding out shocking news in front of a crowd of strangers. It wasn’t even the expression of someone who, like Annette, had their suspicions confirmed. No, it was an expression that said he’d been watching Ingrid for months, watching her struggle to breathe, and he was watching her finally exhale. 

But then, _of_ _course_ he wasn’t surprised. This was Sylvain. He was perceptive in a way that bordered on eerie when it came to his friends’ emotions. Annette wasn’t even sure that Ingrid had told him. He might’ve just figured it out by himself.

“Wow, this is so crazy,” said Dimitri from across the room. “I had no idea. Felix, did you know about—”

Annette’s gaze snapped across the room, but the armchair was empty. Felix was gone.

Her throat seized up in a panic. “Hey, uh, hey guys?” She said shrilly. “I hate to interrupt but— uh, has anyone seen Felix?”

Dimitri, Claude, Hilda, Marianne, and Ingrid all gave her variations on the same perplexed look. 

“Guys,” Annette said again, “His friends, like, _just_ came out, you don’t think he’ll wanna hear that now instead of like—?”

Sylvain took a sip of his drink. “I think he went upstairs. Maybe try the bathroom?” he said.

Annette nodded. “Cool,” she muttered, standing up and wincing slightly at the pins-and-needles in her feet (she’d been sitting on her knees for a _long_ time). 

“Wait,” Dimitri said suddenly. “Try his bedroom. It’s at the end of the hall. Last door on the left.”

Sylvain gave him a startled look. Dimitri refused to make eye contact. 

“Bedroom,” Annette said. “Right.” And then, before anyone else could give her any conflicting information, she turned on her heel and walked out of the room.

_____

Felix’s room was impossible to miss. Even if Annette hadn’t had Dimitri’s directions, she would’ve been able to assume, purely from context, which room was his. A large black poster depicted a leering white skull; the words “KEEP OUT” were scrawled across the bottom in sloppy white text. It managed to be both imposing and juvenile. It felt like a child’s attempt to play pretend as a scary teenage boy. 

Then again, maybe it literally was. The corners of the poster were peeling away from the door, revealing a grimy layer of dust collecting at the edges of the scotch tape. For reasons Annette couldn’t explain, it made her want to cry.

She knocked on the door. No answer.

“Hey, Felix?” She called, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “It’s me. Uh, I mean, it’s Annette. Something kinda big just happened downstairs, so maybe if you wanna, um, open the door—?”

Still no answer.

Annette took a deep breath. “Okay,” she called. “Okay, this is, like, actually important, so I’m coming in, um, so if you’re doing— something _indecent_ , you have five seconds to— _not_ be doing that.”

Silence.

“I mean it, mister,” yelled Annette, with more bravado than she felt. “I’m coming in. For real. In five, four, three, two—”

“What?” came a voice from within.

“I said,” Annette yelled. “You have—”

_“What?”_

“Oh, for crying out loud—” Annette fumbled with the doorknob. It wasn’t until the knob turned and she pushed her way into Felix’s bedroom that she realized: she hadn’t even considered the possibility that it might be locked.

Did that say more about her or more about Felix?

Felix was lying on a twin-sized mattress, one arm resting lazily behind his head. The hem of his t-shirt had ridden up slightly, revealing a thin strip of skin above the waistband of his boxers; a suggestion of the taut line of muscle that disappeared beneath his jeans. For some reason, Annette felt her face flame up. The casual suggestion of skin was more intimate, somehow, than if she’d walked in on him completely naked.

Not that she was thinking about Felix naked. He was her friend. They were friends. This wasn’t happening. This was very much _not_ what was happening here, why, God, why had her stupid, torturous brain decided to go in _that_ direction—

“Hey,” said Felix, sitting up as Annette let his bedroom door fall shut behind her. His voice gave the effect of dousing her with a bucket of ice water. Of course she wasn’t— thinking like _that._ This was Felix. Felix, who teased her about her shitty taste in music and called her a klutz and thought she was so fragile, so _naive_ that he’d lied to her about invitationals. She didn’t think about Felix like that. She couldn’t afford to. “What’s happening? Is someone on fire?”

He was doing a decent job of putting together sentences, but his words were slurring together enough that Annette, on a hunch, cast a wary eye at his nightstand. A half-empty can of PBR perched precariously on a copy of _Les Miserables._ She guessed it wasn’t his first of the night. 

“No. Everything’s fine,” said Annette. She had the sense that Felix, if he drank at all, didn’t drink the way he’d been drinking tonight. Something felt wrong. “What are you doing up here? People miss you—”

“No, they don’t,” Felix laughed. “We keep throwing parties here because people _don’t_ miss me.”

“Is this about your dad?” said Annette. Felix looked up at her, a painful gleam in his eye that Annette didn’t entirely understand. “It’s not about my fucking dad,” he said.

“Then what is it?” Annette asked breathlessly. “It’s Dimitri’s birthday and you’re hiding out in your room. Nobody knows where you’ve been for _hours,_ and you— you’ve just been in here by yourself with a can of, no offense, the absolute _shittiest_ beer—”

Felix stood up. “I can’t have a few beers in my own house?”

“No,” Annette said. “No, you’re not listening. That’s not—”

Felix took a step forward. Annette instinctively backed away, which left her pressed against one of the walls; a Talking Heads poster dug into her skin. 

Something unplaceable lashed across Felix’s face. 

“Listen,” Annette said. “You can’t just run off like that. I don’t care if it’s your house, or your party— we were worried, okay?”

Felix nodded. He took another step forward. He was close enough now that Annette could see the light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks.

“You missed something huge,” Annette heard herself saying. “Ingrid and Dorothea are together now. Like, they just came out downstairs. It would’ve been really nice if you were there, you know? You could’ve found out like the rest of us instead of having to hear it from—”

“I know,” Felix said. He was close enough now that Annette could feel his warm breath ghosting across her bare skin when he exhaled. “Ingrid told me. A few weeks ago.”

Annette blinked dumbly up at him. _“She what?”_

“It was something about what you said to Dorothea,” said Felix, like this was the most normal thing in the world, the most normal place in the world to be having a conversation like this, pressed up against each other like they were running out of room. Like any of his stilted half-sentences were making any kind of sense. “About deserving better. Someone who’d stand outside her window with a boombox.”

“I don’t understand,” said Annette. “So I said something dumb to Dorothea, and she, what, told Ingrid—”

“Don’t.” Felix interrupted. “It wasn’t— I don’t think it’s dumb.”

Annette opened her mouth, only to immediately close it again without saying anything. 

“I don’t think it’s dumb at all,” Felix said. “I think— if you want that—”

Felix’s expression was tender. Raw. Earnest. So painfully earnest that Annette almost couldn’t bear to look at him. In the low light of his bedroom, his eyes were warm and shining and accented with flecks of gold. His lips parted 

This boy— this cynical, closed-off, bitter, jaded, intelligent, emotional, loving, _beautiful_ boy — was looking at her like she was someone who mattered.

Like she was beautiful, too.

“Felix,” Annette breathed, a slight hitch in her voice. “You’re drunk. You don’t actually want to do this.”

"You don’t know what I want," Felix said, and leaned down to kiss her. 

Felix kissed her like his world stopped and started with her mouth. Annette’s heart stuttered to a stop at the first hard press of lips against hers and she reached up without thinking to tangle her fingers in his long, dark hair.

Time was nothing. Seconds were days, were years, were the breaths that caught between their mouths. She could feel Felix’s heartbeat thrumming against her wrists, a staccato rhythm that echoed in Annette’s veins. 

Annette could hear every inhale and exhale; feel the slight hitch in his breathing. His skin was warm, and clean, and softer than she would’ve expected; his fingers were long and slender, almost delicate, almost feminine. He brushed a strand of hair behind her left ear and that simple touch was so unexpected that it startled Annette enough that she bit down on his lower lip, which caused Felix to let out a quiet, shocked gasp

Annette had never been so aware of her hands, the uncomfortable press of her body against the wall, the way the wet, warm sounds of their bodies seemed to echo in his bedroom. It wasn’t what she’d anticipated her first kiss would be like. It was louder, messier, more awkward fumbling than romance novels had led her to anticipate. 

But it was a little wonderful, too. She could feel Felix smiling against her lips, feel the synapses in her brain singing at each brush of skin against skin, feel the press of his jeans against her dress. If she was honest, she felt safe. She felt safer than she’d felt in a long, long time.

“She’s been gone a while,” slurred a voice from the hallway. “Annette? Hey, Annette, where’d you go—”

The sound brought Annette crashing violently back down to reality. She pulled her mouth away. The sound was wet and loud, and Felix was breathing heavily, looking at her with a dazed expression. His lips were red.

It was a nice moment. It was, she realized with a start, the type of moment that happened in romantic comedies. The right girl, the boy from the band, sneaking away to sloppily make out at a house party.

 _Fuck_.

She’d just made out with her bandmate at a house party.

The feeling of safety vanished, replaced with something like ugly, desperate panic.

She’d kissed him. Or he’d kissed her, and she’d let him, but then, instead of doing the smart, sensible thing, she’d kissed him back, and she’d kissed him harder, and that was so, _so_ much worse.

“Why’d you—” Felix’s voice was strangled, his breath coming in such short, forceful spurts that it sounded like he’d sprinted through a marathon.

Annette wasn’t sure how to answer that question. Why had she stopped? Or, the bigger, more important question— why had she started? She didn’t know. She really, truly, didn’t _fucking_ know. Her head throbbed with the dying buzz from all those shots she’d had earlier in the night (God, she was going to be _so_ hungover tomorrow—)

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Annette whispered, unthinking. Felix flinched, and Annette realized, a moment too late, that she’d spoken out loud. “Oh, God, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Felix said, but his breath still hadn’t returned to normal and his eyes were somewhere behind Annette’s right ear, tracing the rows of posters along his bedroom wall.

Annette had assumed from her tone of self-loathing it would’ve been obvious what she’d meant. God, she’d really fucked this one up, hadn’t she? If this wasn’t bad enough on its own, it certainly didn’t help that this was Felix. Felix, whose dry sense of humor made her laugh at the worst possible moments; Felix, who always looked so good without even seeming to try— his long dark hair and the one loose curl that he was always tucking behind one earl, his warm brown eyes and the light dusting of freckles across his skin. Annette couldn’t imagine what she was supposed to say. All she wanted to do was apologize again, and she wasn’t even sure why, or what she was apologizing for, but —

“What’s happening?” Felix’s voice cut through her reverie. He was doing a very good job of pretending to be sober, she thought. If she wasn’t close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, she would’ve believed him.

Annette made a choked-up noise, somewhere between a hiccup and a sob. “You are so, so drunk,” she said at last. “You’re drunk, and I’m awful.”

Felix looked wrecked. His lips were wet, which made the most sense, his cheeks were flushed, and his hair, his long, beautiful hair, had come undone from the loose knot at the back of his head, spilling down his shoulders in an unkempt mess.

He hadn’t wanted to kiss her. Annette knew that now. He’d wanted to kiss _someone_ , and she’d just happened to be the first person who came along.

And still, even after the terrible, awful thing she’d just done, he was still looking at her with so much _tenderness_. “If you’re awful, then what does that say about me, huh?” he said. The words tumbled over each other, spilling over each other and slurring together to the point that they were nearly indistinguishable. "Why don't we be awful together?"

“Felix. Stop it.” Annette said sharply. “We can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please don’t be mad, please don’t hate me—”

“Hate you?” said Felix, who looked genuinely upset. “I don’t hate you. Why would I hate you?”

It all sounded so absurd under the soft bedroom lighting. Annette felt like crying. What part of this was so difficult to understand?

“Because we just— I just took advantage of you,” she cried. “Felix, are you listening to me? You are _so_ drunk right now, and I’m not, or, you know, at least _less_ drunk, which means I have to be the responsible one and say, no, you can’t consent—”

“Annie, I kissed you,” said Felix, with a tone of mild bemusement. “And then you kissed me. I don’t get why this is such a—”

“Because I don’t know what the fuck just happened!” Annette hissed.

“Uh,” Felix said, calmly. “Well, when two people—”

“This isn’t funny,” Annette cried. “I don’t get why you’re not more upset about this. I mean, we just—”

“Oh, come on,” said Felix. “I told you. I wanted to—”

Annette shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, no you didn’t, you didn’t, but I—”

She took an abrupt step backward, flattening herself against the door with a thump. 

“Annette?” Dimitri’s voice filtered in through the door. “Was that you?”

Felix threw her a wild look, one that clearly communicated _don’t say anything_ — that was right; he’d been hiding in his room when she’d found him. Annette had completely forgotten about that. Why had she forgotten about that? What possible reason could she have for forgetting something so important—

“It’s about Ingrid,” Dimitri told her, and Annette really, really couldn’t imagine what this was about. Ingrid didn’t hang out with Annette except for in rehearsals, and occasionally on the weekend when Annette was feeling brave enough to get behind the wheel of Ingrid’s cherry red Jeep. Unless, of course, Dimitri means the whole “coming out” thing, which, again, Felix just said he already knew, that Ingrid had already told him, so Annette couldn’t understand why Ingrid would be so concerned about passing along the message.

As if reading Annette’s thoughts, Dimitri coughed. “She said it’s okay if you didn’t find Felix because he’s probably hiding or something—”

Annette couldn’t imagine where this was going. It was difficult to concentrate on anything when her mind was a squirming mass of guilt and regret and—and— and something else she didn’t entirely know how to process.

“Oh, and, uh,” said Dimitri. “I don’t even know if I’m talking to you right now, or just an empty room, but if I am talking to you, uh, while I’m here, I— I’m really glad you’re here, too? At my birthday party. It’s been a really long time since we hung out, and I’m just glad you’re around, and— I don’t know what I’m saying anymore, so I’ll— anyway, that’s it.”

There was a beat. Dimitri’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, and then, he was gone.

Felix was breathing heavily.

Annette knew she should say something. Why wasn’t she saying something?

“I should go,” said Annette. She thought she said it. “I should. I should—”

“Wait,” Felix said. “Wait, don’t—”

It took Annette two tries to open the door. Her hand trembled on the doorknob as it twisted into place. Her body moved down the hallway, down the stairs, into the living room.

The music was loud. The air was claustrophobic. Annette fished through the pile of winter coats for her parka. Sylvain tried to talk to her. She said she wanted to leave soon. She said she didn’t feel so good. He didn’t seem to buy it. Annette put on her shoes. Someone said her name. It was Dorothea. She asked if Annette wanted to go home. Annette said something. She might’ve said something. She didn’t know. Everything was so loud. It was all so loud. Why was it all so loud?

Ingrid was grabbing her keys, and then, Annette fled.

_____

Overhead, the night sky was somewhere between overcast and drizzling, as if even the cloud cover couldn’t muster up the energy for a storm. Annette spent most of the drive with her forehead pressed against the backseat window, ignoring the expression on Dorothea’s face as she cast worried glances at Annette in the rearview mirror. At one point, Ingrid looked like she wanted to say something, but Dorothea touched her arm lightly, and Ingrid shut her mouth. Annette tried to pretend she didn’t notice the meaningful eye contact, or how painfully obvious it was that they were going to talk about her the second they dropped her off at home.

She didn’t want to go home. Annette realized this as the car sat at a red light, idling at the corner of a four-way intersection. She didn’t want to face an empty house haunted by the ghost of her parents’ disappointment. Or maybe Mama was awake. Maybe her voice would break with despair as Annette tiptoed in, reeking of cheap beer and congealed sweat. _“Do you know how many drunk drivers I’ve had to stitch back together? Do you know how many phone calls I’ve had to make to parents? You never want to make that phone call, Annette. You never want to get that phone call. You’re smarter than this. Why would you do something so—?”_

Ingrid’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel. They’d turned on the radio, but the car was still somehow painfully quiet.

“You said you didn’t want to talk about it,” Dorothea said quietly. Her eyes felt careful. “And I’m not gonna make you, but I just want you to know. We’re your friends, and we love you. If there’s anything we can do to help, just say something.”

“I know,” Annette said. “Thanks” She was quiet for a moment. The rhythmic clicking of Ingrid’s turn signal beat in time with the radio. On a whim, Annette cast her eyes to the signs by the edge of the road, scanning them listlessly until one caught her attention.

_**Ivy Garden Apartment Complex: NEXT LEFT** _

The light was about to turn green.

“Actually,” Annette said, before she could lose her nerve. “There is one thing you could do.”

_____

In retrospect, it was a very stupid decision. “You didn’t even know if I’d be home,” said Mercedes, once Ingrid and Dorothea had driven away and Annette was safely inside the apartment. “What, exactly, were you planning on doing if I hadn’t answered the door? Or if you had the right apartment number but the wrong complex? You’ve never been here.”

“I don’t know.” Annette sunk into the couch. She rubbed her closed eyes with her fists. A thin layer of makeup residue came off on her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just didn’t know where else to go. Is your roommate gonna be mad?”

“Roommate?” Mercedes asked, sounding like this she thought this was an unreasonable question, which Annette thought was a _bit_ unfair considering the apartment had two bedrooms. After a moment, Mercedes relaxed. “Oh. That. Sorry, it’s just, he’s never really around. Long hours at a weird job, or something.” Her expression turned wistful. “Sometimes, I forget I don’t live alone.”

There was something dark lurking in that statement, in that expression, in that tone of voice. If Annette were in a different state of mind, she might’ve dug her nails in and pulled at it until she arrived at something resembling the truth. Then again, maybe it wasn’t her state of mind that was preventing her from digging deeper. Maybe it was Mercedes. Maybe, Annette thought, she was worried that if she dug too deep, she wouldn’t recognize the person she found buried underneath the rubble.

“That sounds nice,” said Annette. “As long as he’s still paying rent, and assuming that weird job isn’t, like, serial killer, or drug dealer, or something.”

It wasn’t her best joke, but that didn’t explain the burst of irritation that flashed across Mercedes’s face before she schooled her features into something more tranquil. “I don’t know,” she said, drawing her pale-pink bathrobe tighter around her body for warmth. “We don’t talk about it. That’s not a very satisfying answer, but it’s the truth.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Annette said with a frown. “But you have to admit, it’s weird, right? Living with a roommate you never see? Like, how do you know he’s not Hannibal Lecter?”

“Because I just do,” Mercedes snapped. “Do you really think I’d live with someone if I wasn’t completely sure they weren’t going to _kill and eat me?”_

Well. Now that Mercedes said it out loud, Annette had to admit that it sounded stupid. “I just,” she said stupidly. “I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“You want to make sure I’m safe?” Mercedes said incredulously. “Annie, I’m almost twenty. I’ve been living alone since I was eighteen, and I know I might not look like it, but I can take care of myself. What’s gotten into you, lately? It's like I don't even know you anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Annette said quietly. “I didn’t mean it. I know you can.”

Mercedes sighed.

“Annie,” she said quietly. With a quiet thump, she joined Annette on the couch. “It’s late. Does your mom know you’re here?”

“She knows,” said Annette. “I sent her a text, but she might be asleep, so—”

“Mm-hmm,” said Mercedes. “Okay, well, just to be sure, I’m gonna call her and make sure she knows. Okay? Is that okay?” Annette nodded. “So, based on how much eyeliner you’re wearing, I’m guessing you went to a party. Is that what happened?”

“Yeah,” said Annette, in a voice filled with hesitation. “I went to a party. And then I had a lot of alcohol. And I did something stupid.”

Mercedes brushed her hair away from her forehead. “Well, stop doing that. You know you’re a lightweight,” she said affectionately. “So? What did you do this time?”

She thought this was like the last time. An inside joke between the two of them; a funny reminder of Annette’s inability to function in the most average social settings. Mercedes thought this was something warm and small that they’d laugh about in the morning, when it wasn’t like that at all. This was all angles and lines and bad decisions. This was the look on Felix’s face as she pushed him away. This wasn’t something Annette easily put into words.

Because, how _could_ she explain the events of that night?

All this time, Annette had been praying for forgiveness for the things she had done, but she hadn’t thought to ask the universe to forgive the things she hadn’t. She’d left Dimitri’s birthday party without saying goodbye, and ignored Sylvain when he’d asked if she was feeling okay, and allowed Ingrid and Dorothea to drive her halfway across town without congratulating them on coming out. She’d been trying to make sense of why she’d kissed Felix— or why she’d let him kiss her, and why she’d kissed him back, that her field of vision had tunneled and she hadn’t even considered if her actions had hurt anyone else.

She’d been so wrapped up in it, diving headfirst into the distraction of her own self-pity, that she hadn’t stopped to take the time to remind herself that she wasn’t Cinderella fleeing from the ball, she was a stupid, cowardly little girl who never learned that she was too much, too loud, a whirlwind of chaos and destruction who just kept hurting people,  _ fuck,  _ she just kept hurting people—

“I—” Annette said, and then she burst into tears.

“Oh,” Mercedes said, and her face crumbled. “Oh, honey, oh honey, come here.” She was something solid to lean against, something maternal and fierce, and Annette let herself be held. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. I’m here. I’m here.”

“It was so bad, Mercie,” Annette gasped for air, her entire body wracked with sobs. “It was so b-bad, and then I just, I left, and you’re gonna hate me.”

Mercedes rubbed her back in slow, easy circles. “You’re my best friend,” she said. “I promise. I’ll never, _ever_ hate you.”

_____

Later, much later, once she’d showered, changed into a spare t-shirt, and cozied up beneath a pile of blankets on the couch, Annette heard Mercedes make a few phone calls. The first was the promised call to Annette’s mom: short, sweet, to-the-point. The second sounded like Sylvain — _yes, she’s fine_ , Mercedes was saying, _she’s drunk, drunker than she thinks she is, but she’s sleeping it off on my couch and she’ll be fine in the morning_ . _no, no Sylvain, that’s fine, thank you, we’ll be fine. I can make sure she gets home, yes, of course I’ll call you tomorrow._

 _Of course_ . Since when was it a given that Mercedes would call _Sylvain_?

Annette was half-asleep bordering on full-asleep when Mercedes tiptoed into the foyer to make the last call of the night— almost as if, of all of the calls, this was the one she _really_ didn’t want Annette to overhear.

“Hey,” Annette heard Mercedes whisper into the phone. “What time are you gonna get home?”

A beat.

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just, the thing is, Annette’s here right now.” A pause. “She’s asleep on the couch. And she’s had a really rough night, and I know this isn’t fair to ask you to do, but if you could—”

Another beat.

“Oh. Oh, you’d do that?” The relief in Mercedes’s voice was palpable. “You’d really do that? Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. I think we’ll be gone around nine tomorrow, but I don’t know how long she’ll need to sleep. Maybe ten? I can call and let you know. Or, maybe, if you wanted to—”

A four-second-long pause.

“Uh-huh,” Mercedes said. “No, I agree. It’s not the right time— _I know_. I know.” Annette could almost hear Mercedes nodding. “I understand. No, no, it’s the right thing to do. We can talk about it tomorrow. Are you sure you're going to be okay tonight? Do you have everything you need? Pajamas, toothbrush—”

There was one final pause.

“Who would I be if I didn't worry about you?" Mercedes said at last. “Get some sleep. I love you too."

The apartment was quiet and still as Annette drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of housekeeping this time:
> 
> 1) when claude tells annette "prospero," he's not just being a dick. prospero is the main character of the edgar allan poe short story "masque of the red death." annette doesn't get the reference.
> 
> 2) most of y'all probably recognized it, but the truth or dare scene is paraphrased/adapted/rewritten from alice oseman's heartstopper comic! 
> 
> 3) this chapter was uhhh a bit of a bummer, but please keep in mind that literally nobody is more invested in the happiness and mental health of one annette fantine dominic than me. also, looking at my outline, this thing will probably end up being around... hm, maybe 17 chapters total? so we have a lot more to go
> 
> also i am. hrm. not super thrilled with the pacing of this chapter, but i'm deep in thesis hell right now, so i don't have a ton of time to edit/rewrite at the moment. hopefully you all can forgive me xx
> 
> much love as always for reading!!!!!


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